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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24355111">The Room Where It Happens</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/notapartytrick/pseuds/notapartytrick'>notapartytrick</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Room Where It Happens [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Room (2015), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Peter Parker, Battlestar Galactica References, Child Abuse, College Student Peter Parker, Confinement, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Family Feels, Found Family, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hospitalization, How I managed to write something so dark I don't know but here we are, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, I'm Sorry, Imprisonment, Kid Peter Parker, Kidnapping, Mild Sexual Content, Orphan Peter Parker, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker gets a dog, Physical Abuse, Please heed the tags folks!, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Rape Recovery, Read the tags!, Recovery, Sexual Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Teen Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Underage Rape/Non-con, Virginia Woolf References, Whump, Why Did I Write This?, Why?, a very dark brainchild of mine, because I say so, don't be too disturbed!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:15:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>42,101</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24355111</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/notapartytrick/pseuds/notapartytrick</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>At 7:36 pm on the 12th of May 2016, Tony Stark is put in the Room.<br/>A twelve-by-twelve-foot shed, soundproofed, double locked. It becomes his home. It has to be, because there’s nowhere else.<br/>At 4:22 pm on the 15th of June 2017, Peter Parker is put in the Room.<br/>They make a living under duress, fearing at every moment the entry of their captor. Confinement halts their lives in their tracks, changes them both for good: breaks them and brings them together simultaneously.</p><p>“If someone has everything they need, but nobody, do they have everything? Or nothing?”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Rhodey" Rhodes &amp; Tony Stark, Michelle Jones &amp; Ned Leeds &amp; Peter Parker, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker &amp; James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Peter Parker &amp; Pepper Potts, Peter Parker &amp; Pepper Potts &amp; Tony Stark, Peter Parker &amp; Tony Stark, Peter Parker &amp; Tony Stark &amp; Original Character(s), Peter Parker &amp; his dog!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Room Where It Happens [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2109738</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>299</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>604</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Faves and must-reads, Irondad Creators Awards 2021 - Nominations, Irondad Creators Awards 2021 - Runners-Up, genuinely made me cry, impravidus's favorite fics</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello, lovelies!<br/>This is my darkest work yet - a product of a few feverish days of inspiration where I wrote solidly all day (don't worry, I still ate and slept and everything!) after having seen the 2015 movie Room. It stars Brie Larson and Jacob Tremblay, who are both *awesome*, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. So, of course, I gave it the Irondad treatment. And made it even darker. Please don't murder me for the ensuing whump and angst!!<br/>Before getting into this, please re-check the tags and make sure nothing I have mentioned could be triggering to you. I'm very anxious to make sure everyone reading this fic stays safe. I will preface every chapter with additional trigger warnings.<br/>Stay safe, guys, and I hope those of you who feel up to reading this will enjoy it! I promise it'll all work out in the end :)</p><p>Trigger warning for Chapter 1 (this warning contains spoilers):</p><p>Detailed description of solitary confinement; mild allusions to suicidal and depressive thoughts, dissociation and panic attacks; swearing; physical abuse; non-explicit descriptions of child rape.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>At 7:36 pm on the 12th of May 2016, Tony Stark is put in the Room.</p><p>A twelve-by-twelve-foot shed, soundproofed, double locked. It becomes his home. It has to be, because there’s nowhere else.</p><p>Tony’s first thought when the bag is removed from his head and the man leaves him there is to escape. He punches endless incorrect combinations into the keypad keeping the heavy-duty door locked, hollers for help through the single vent, reaches for the small skylight set into the ceiling, the only source of light, tries to open it, smash it, carve out a hole around it, hits and hits and hits the walls, scrabbles at the door, claws at the concrete floor, then gives up.</p><p>“Fuck,” he says, sprawled on the floor. Then he yells it, losing himself in the volume. “Fuck. <em> Fuck</em>. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”</p><p>There’s nothing to do but take stock of the room. Bed in the bottom right corner. There’s another bed in the upper left corner, but he doesn’t want to think about that. Storage box beside his bed, bathtub squeezed in beside that. TV against the right wall. Couch. Kitchenette bottom left corner near the door on the left wall, table and chairs in the centre. Toilet and sink shoved in between. It’s like a fucking studio apartment. The man has provided him with everything he needs, and yet he has nothing at all.</p><p>The following night beeps on his watch; that’s when he meets his captor.</p><p><em> Click. </em> The door opens.</p><p>He sits with Tony at first and introduces himself almost politely. Larry. A moment later, however, he grabs Tony by the collar and beats him. Just fists to begin with, until he crumples to the ground with the force of the blows. Then Tony is kicked, spat upon.</p><p>“What do you want?” he pleads through a blood-clogged throat as Larry storms out of the room.</p><p>“You.”</p><p>And there he is left to clean up his own blood.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Tony remembers faces - Pepper, his wife, and Rhodey, his best friend. They must be looking for him, worried.</p><p>But the thought of them isn’t enough to keep him going. Not in this hell of a place. Not when loneliness pierces him with the bitterness of knives.</p><p>Thoughts of death bleed like dark ink into his mind, inexorable. He sifts wildly through the kitchen drawers for something sharp and finds just one blunted knife, no scissors, no razors. Pummeling the walls with fists turns to thumping his head against them. He even tries holding himself under the bath water but his lungs rebel and he inhales a mouthful of moisture which he reflexively coughs out above the surface.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Here’s when time begins to lose distinction for Tony. Days blend together, sludge-grey as the sleet melting and congealing over the skylight that he begins to stare at for hours on end, marked only by the shrill hourly beeping of his watch.</p><p>He curses every moment in his life when he could have taken a walk, could have breathed in fresh air, and chose not to. Every conversation he missed because of a commitment that didn’t even matter. This is all that matters now, and it’s fucking <em>awful</em>.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“What makes a person a real person?” he mutters to himself, sitting at the table, imagining someone else sat across from him and enraptured by his every stumbling word. “If someone has everything they need, but nobody, do they have everything? Or nothing?”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“Trapped,” he gasps, pacing back and forth from wall to wall. The Room closes in on him. “Oh, God, it’s too small. Shit. I’m going crazy.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>He traces faces on the TV screen, watches the same scenes from outdated shows over and over again, mouths the words, craves the joy of speaking and receiving an answer. Of love.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Larry returns and stocks his cupboard before he hits him. Tony barely notices it happening.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Some indeterminable period of time later, he finds himself standing on a chair with his face upturned to study the skylight, his tiny window to the world. He’s startled by a leaf falling on the glass. Blinks.</p><p>His watch informs him it’s the 12th of September. He’s been here four months.</p><p>What’s happened outside the Room in four months? Are people still looking for him? Has Pepper moved on? The world might have ended out there and he’d have no idea.</p><p>It makes him feel so useless. One wall between him and <em>everything</em>, but he’s trapped. Trapped. Trapped.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Tony isn’t quite sure when he begins to emerge back in the present, but by the time his watch heralds the arrival of December some semblance of clarity has formed in his mind. The Schedule helps - his mental list of the week’s activities, from the times Larry most commonly visits to the hour he has his meals to Sunday and the day he dubs Wash Day, when he scrubs one set of clothes in the sink and wears the other for the ensuing week.</p><p><em> Routine is important, </em> Pepper used to remind him, but he’s never considered its lifesaving ability until now. Every day, he wakes up with the notion of having something to do. It’s just enough to get him out of bed.</p><p>He begins to prepare himself for Larry’s visits. On the 4th of January 2017, he waits behind the door with the lid of the toilet in his hands and his heart in his mouth.</p><p>When he regains consciousness, his captor has disappeared and every inch of his body burns.</p><p>Cold water only slightly eases the throb of the belt-shaped welts covering him. He soaks in the bath and reels in his failure.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says to nobody. “I screwed it up.”</p><p>He cries.</p><p>Then he goes about his day as best as he can.</p><p>Tony learns first aid by trial and error. Learns how to scrub his own blood from the floor and the rug, learns that soaking his bloodied clothes in cold water helps it to fade and clean better. Blood is his main problem. Bruises will heal, and sprained or broken bones are a lost cause. There’s a lingering pain in his wrist that he doesn’t think will heal by itself.</p><p>Maybe it never will, then.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Larry enters the Room once or twice a week on average. When he visits more, Tony knows he’s in a bad mood and braces himself for more painful and inventive beatings. Sometimes he’ll visit more sporadically and even talk with Tony for a few minutes. If Tony wasn’t so desperate for interaction, he’d refuse to talk to the man, but he can’t help it.</p><p>Sometimes, Larry walks out without hitting him at all; those visits elicit a painful sort of relief. </p><p>“This shirt is worn to shit,” Tony mentions boldly to him on the 2nd of March, and Larry nods in understanding upon taking it into his hands.</p><p>“Sure is. I’ll get you another one if I can make it to Goodwill in the next couple of days.”</p><p> The reply is devoid of malice, almost so far as to carry a tone of sympathy, and Tony feels his chest tighten suddenly with emotional whiplash.</p><p>
  <em> No, he’s got you trapped here. He’s bad. He’s bad. </em>
</p><p>“You’ve gotta be more careful washing them,” adds Larry, eyebrow twitching in annoyance.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“You wanna keep this for scraps?”</p><p>“Yeah, sure.” Tony takes it back from him, unable to push away the swell of paranoia as his hands brush against Larry’s. Those are the hands that have caused him so much harm, yet now are handing him necessities. It makes no damn <em>sense</em>. “And I’m also--”</p><p>“Oh, I see we’re asking for liberties left, right and centre now, Your Highness.”</p><p>“You see this?” Parting the hair on the crown of his head, Tony points to the bald patch there, then indicates the two small sores framing his mouth. “Vitamin deficiency. If I had a better diet--”</p><p>“I’ll think about it.”</p><p>“Right. Okay.”</p><p>“What do you say?”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“There you go. A little gratefulness.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>It’s 4:22 pm on the 15th of June 2017 when Tony hears the <em>click </em>of the door unlocking for the fifth time that week. He aches. He’s spent. So he submits himself, doesn’t move an inch as familiar footsteps sound on the concrete.</p><p>It’s the accompanying sounds that don’t add up: the scuffling, the thud of something heavy hitting the floor, and, most notably, the quiet, shuddering pants of breath that most certainly don’t belong to Larry.</p><p>Tony turns.</p><p>It’s a <em> person</em>.</p><p>Larry tugs away a bag, the same bag he’d used on Tony. </p><p>Beneath it is a boy.</p><p>
  <em> There’s another bed in the upper left corner, but he doesn’t want to think about that. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jesus Christ. </em>
</p><p>Without a word, Larry leaves the room, leaves the kid kneeling there on the floor, hands and feet zip-tied together, shaking.</p><p>“Oh, God,” Tony breathes.</p><p>The kid scans the Room wildly and latches on to Tony with a wide-eyed gaze.</p><p>That look is enough to propel Tony out of his chair and to the kitchen drawer. He fishes around urgently for the only knife he has, then drops to his knees before the kid, who doesn’t flinch at his proximity. Though they’ve never met, though he’s just been abducted, the boy trusts him, and it makes Tony feel something he hasn’t felt in a long time.</p><p>Tony hastily saws through the zip ties, watching as the kid’s face slowly crumples. Once he’s been freed, the boy clutches his wrists to himself wordlessly, still shaking.</p><p>It’s only then that he begins to cry.</p><p>Short, hiccuping sobs begin to puncture the silence of the Room. The kid covers his face with splayed hands, then removes them, then darts his tear-stained gaze once more around the Room with uncertainty - and then, in a sudden and fierce movement, he throws his arms around Tony’s torso and buries his face in his shoulder.</p><p>Tony freezes, the juddering of his heartbeat reverberating in his ears. Touch has taken on a new meaning to him, he realises. Touch is pain. But not now. This touch thaws a river linked to every nerve in his body, sends warm liquid coursing through him, compels him to return the embrace.</p><p>They sit messily on the floor, the haggard man and the crying kid, comforting one another, and their bond begins.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Peter Parker is twelve years old. He loves to draw but hates sports. His birthday is the 10th of August. He thinks he wants to be a teacher, but when he was younger he always wanted to be a superhero. His favourite TV show is Battlestar Galactica. He’s small, bright, lively once he begins to come out of his shell. </p><p>Tony Stark is forty-one years old. He doesn’t think much about hobbies but likes to tinker with phones and microwaves and network routers to see if he can improve them. His birthday is the 29th of May. He’s a tech consultant. <em> His </em>favourite TV show is Battlestar Galactica.</p><p>In Peter, Tony finds his purpose.</p><p>He makes a list of things he vows he will always do:</p><p>
  <em>- Protect Peter.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Stay alive.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Make sure the kid gets 3 meals a day, sleeps every night, and has something to look forward to every morning.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Make life liveable.</em>
</p><p>He compiles the list the first night he turns over in his bed and sees a mop of caramel curls on the pillow in the opposite corner, and he resolves never to forget it.</p><p>Tony doesn’t consider himself to be good with kids, but Peter… Peter isn’t a kid. He is, but he isn’t. He’s just a person. It doesn’t matter, anyway: he’s the <em>only </em>person, so they have to like each other. It’s a blessing, then, that Peter is so easy to like.</p><p>Time changes when Peter arrives. It becomes clearer, more important.</p><p>For the first few days, the kid rarely leaves his bed, and Tony understands. He sets plates of food beside him and encourages him to eat, begins to sing quietly as he scrubs the floor, washes up after meals, flips open a book, gazes up at the skylight. He notices that Peter spends a lot of his time watching the small square of light too.</p><p>They talk, sitting side-by-side on Peter’s bed, and this is where Tony learns about the kid. The only thing he won’t tell Tony about is his family. He decides not to press. It’s a hard subject for him too.</p><p>Then Tony is able to coax him away from his bed and onto the couch, where he digs up 6 old episodes of Battlestar Galactica, and he sees the kid smile for the first time.</p><p>It makes him smile back. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>On the 18th of June 2017, Tony is woken in the night by a muffled cry and blinks awake to see Peter in the centre of the room, a hand clamped over his mouth, turning at erratic intervals to take in the Room.</p><p>Tony remembers experiencing the very same horror at the size of the Room they will now both be confined in for an indefinite length of time. It’s no less horrifying to think of now than then, but Tony’s learned to stop <em>really </em>thinking about it, stop processing.</p><p>“Hey, kid,” he says in the strange, rough new voice he’s developed.</p><p>Peter ducks his head and shakes it rapidly.</p><p>Squeezing his slender shoulder consolingly, Tony forms a plan almost instantly. “How about I give you the official tour of the Room? Show you all it’s got to offer. It’s… it seems bigger if you think about all the stuff in it. It really does.”</p><p>“Okay,” Peter replies in a wavering tone that makes Tony’s heart ache.</p><p>He steers the kid around the Room all the same. “Okay, here we’ve got the bathtub - behind it there’s room to pile up books, see? Not the best place to store books, but I reckon we can manage to keep them dry. There are all sorts of books. You can start one tomorrow if you want. I was thinking, maybe we could hang some sort of curtain around it? Make a DIY changing room? And clothes go here in the bedside table, folded Marie Kondo style. That’s the best way to make ‘em look super fancy. Like a hotel, right? And on Sunday, I’ll wash what we’ve been wearing and hang it all up on a line across the Room. Makes everything damp, sort of like after it’s rained when everything is humid. That’s what I think, anyway. Sometimes I swear I can see that line blowing in the wind. Think of that, huh? A cool breeze…”</p><p>Peter begins to relax just a little.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“Tomatoes?”</p><p>“No, not right now. Could you grab the pan lid? Gotta drain it first.”</p><p>“Oh yeah. Of course.” Peter huffs out a small laugh, compelling Tony to wiggle his eyebrows.</p><p>“Yuh-huh.”</p><p>“I’m trying my best!”</p><p>“Me too, kid.”</p><p>Peter nudges him with an elbow before crouching before the crowded cabinet to slide out the battered plastic lid. Tony covers the pan with it but leaves a sliver of a gap to the side as he tips it into the sink; the cloudy water drains away and leaves the pasta shining and well-cooked.</p><p>Before he can ask, an opened can of tinned tomatoes is proffered to him. Peter cracks a grin.</p><p>“Tomatoes?” he repeats.</p><p>“Yup. You finally got it right.”</p><p>Their five-star dinner of spaghetti, tomato, and tinned tuna is served into plastic bowls. Tony lays them on the creaky table, in the centre of which stands a crooked sculpture made of spare scraps of tinfoil, trash, and toothpicks they’d fashioned together on a whim, bickering harmlessly over where to affix certain objects until they’d ended up with an unidentifiable mess.</p><p>“What’s one thing you miss?” the kid asks him out of the blue.</p><p>“One thing I miss?”</p><p>“From before - before the Room.”</p><p>Tony’s jaw clicks shut.</p><p>After a few moments of silence, Tony ventures, “Ice cream.”</p><p>Peter scoffs at that, fighting back a smile.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Something you <em> really </em> miss.”</p><p>“Am I not allowed to <em> really </em> miss ice cream?”</p><p>“I miss running.”</p><p>It stops them both in their tracks for a moment.</p><p>Peter picks once more at his meal, then continues, “I know I said I didn’t like sports… but, just - running is different. You know? I never thought I’d…”</p><p>Tony understands.</p><p>“I miss the sun, I guess,” he says simply.</p><p>Peter nods.</p><p>It’s the 27th of June 2017: it’s been almost two weeks since Larry has visited and Tony is beginning to worry. As much as he hates to admit it, they need the man. He pays the power and water bills, stocks their cupboard.</p><p>But now that Peter is here… Tony doesn't know what Larry wants with the kid, and it eats away at him relentlessly.</p><p>He finds out soon enough.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Peter wakes before Tony does that night, to a <em> click</em>. He peeks around his shoulder in the direction of the door, and, sure enough, the man Tony had called Larry is beginning to approach him. His heart rate picks up instantly, as much as he wills it to slow. Attempting a slow, deep breath, he holds himself still.</p><p>In a flurry of movement, Larry leaps on top of Peter where he lies on his stomach, clamps a hand over his mouth before he can cry out in panic. The weight crushes him, terrifies him. Suddenly, the Room shrinks itself again; the world seems confined to the bed he’s now trapped in.</p><p>“Make a sound,” breathes Larry, hot in his ear, “And I’ll kill Tony right in front of you.”</p><p>Peter believes it. He has to.</p><p>The hand leaves his mouth, but Peter suddenly wishes it had stayed.</p><p>Because it’s straying down to his pants - and yanking them down - and <em> God God God God God God God God-- </em></p><p>Peter squeezes his eyes shut and focuses every fibre of his being on being as quiet as possible although he’s being split open from the inside out. The weight presses him into the mattress and rocks forward and back, forward and back, and hands and lips are at his shoulders and neck and back and stomach, everywhere, everywhere--</p><p>Tony wakes to a repetitive creaking and a deafeningly quiet chorus of bitten-back whimpers. He fumbles for the lamp, clicks it on and is affronted with the worst, worst, <em> worst </em>thing.</p><p>The kid - the kid is <em>twelve </em> -</p><p>Far, <em> far </em>too young to have Larry sprawled on top of him like that.</p><p>In a flood of horrified adrenaline, Tony rushes to the kid’s bed and makes a grab for Larry’s arm where it’s snaked around Peter’s front, his t-shirt rucked up. “Hey! Get <em> off </em>him, fucker!”</p><p>But Tony doesn’t consider just how easy it is for Larry to grab Peter by the neck in response and ram his face into the pillow.</p><p>“Get your hands away from me!” yells Larry, face thunderous.</p><p>Peter’s hands fist desperately in the stained fabric of the mattress cover; Tony can’t ignore his muffled cries. With reluctance, he takes a step back, raising his hands in surrender. Blood thunders through his ears.</p><p>“You grab me like that again, he gets it.” Larry emphasises the threat with a shake to Peter’s convulsing form.</p><p>Tony can’t think. His hands shake, Peter’s hands shake.</p><p>“<em> Do you understand? </em> ” hollers Larry.</p><p>“<em>Y</em><em>es! </em> I won’t grab you. I promise. I promise. Please let him go.” Tony has never begged before in his life, not like this.</p><p>With one final shove of Peter’s face into the mattress, Larry releases him, climbs out of the bed, buttons his pants, punches Tony in the face for good measure, then leaves the kid wheezing and panting and Tony absently cradling his newly split lip.</p><p>The moment he regains enough breath to think straight, Peter hurriedly tugs the covers back over him.</p><p>Tony swears he feels the final rusty pieces of his heart shatter right then and there.</p><p>“Kid--” he tries.</p><p>Peter burrows under the covers and turns away.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Tony lays awake until morning arrives and his watch beeps: <em> 8:00 am</em>. The kid, however, doesn’t stir until much later. In a hushed corner of his mind, Tony knows that what he’d been subjected to last night would have taken it out of anyone. </p><p>But when midday arrives and Peter still hasn’t opened his eyes, Tony decides to make up a bowl of cereal. He sits on the floor beside the kid’s bed and softly shakes his shoulder.</p><p>The moment when Peter startles awake like he’s been slapped is one of horrific realisation.</p><p>Number 1 on his list is to protect the kid, and he can’t even do that.</p><p>Tony persists anyway. “Hi, kid.” He offers the bowl. “Cheerios?”</p><p>It’s a small victory, but a victory nonetheless, when Peter sits up and takes the bowl with a grateful yet solemn nod. There’s a stiffness to the way the kid rights himself, a bedraggled, torn-apart look to him that didn’t exist just the day before. Tony wonders if he has the same look to him.</p><p>“You know what I <em> don’t </em>miss about being in the Room?” he thinks aloud.</p><p>Peter hums in question.</p><p>“Small talk with random, stupid people.”</p><p>At first, he thinks it might be too harsh, but Peter lets out the smallest of laughs, and it’s enough.</p><p>“I’m a random person,” he murmurs into his cereal.</p><p>“But you’re not stupid. Plus, you’re not just a random person. Not random at all. Very…”</p><p>“Un-random?”</p><p>“Yeah. You got it. Un-random.”</p><p>And it’s a dumb conversation about nothing, but for now, it will do.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Tony holds himself together at the kid’s dampened mood, even as it recovers in small bursts. He holds himself together when Peter hands him his dirty set of clothes to wash and Tony spots a smattering of blood on his boxers.</p><p>He tries his best to hold himself together when Larry stalks into the Room five days later.</p><p>“Okay, kid, I have a plan,” he’d told Peter earlier that day, “If Larry comes in again--” he hadn’t missed the minute way the kid had flinched at the mention of his name - “I need you to sit really quietly in the corner, and I’ll sit in front of you. That way… that way he might not hurt you. Just keep as quiet as you can, don’t talk to him, and if he grabs hold of me… I want you to close your eyes and your ears, real tight. Alright? Don’t get his attention.”</p><p>“That’s cute,” Larry remarks absentmindedly when he sees them both. “Get up.” He nods sharply at Tony, who finds himself freezing in indecision. Does he obey, and risk leaving Peter unshielded, or does he stay put and bring the inevitable violence closer to the kid?</p><p>Larry makes the decision for him, hauling him by his bad wrist to his feet and towards the centre of the Room.</p><p>Tony steals glances back at Peter, eyes wide open and locked on Tony, <em> worried </em>for Tony - the kid is fucking worrying about <em>him</em>.</p><p>“Close your eyes,” he calls to him. </p><p>Larry closes in.</p><p>“Peter.” His tone increases in urgency. Of all the atrocities the kid has endured, this is one he can prevent him from experiencing at least a little. “Close your eyes.”</p><p>The first punch lands square to his stomach, knocking the wind from him.</p><p>“Kid, don’t look,” he wheezes.</p><p>Finally, Peter closes his eyes, clapping his hands over his ears too as the blows begin in earnest.</p><p>As hard as he tries, Tony can’t remain silent when Larry removes his belt. He lets out a cry of agony as the first searing lash hits his back, loud enough that the kid must hear it even from under his stoppered ears, because Tony sees him crush his head into his knees.</p><p>Again. Again. Again. Larry is silent, angry. </p><p>Just as Tony’s sure he will pass out with the next hit, he becomes dimly aware of retreating footsteps. </p><p><em> Click</em>. There’s a beat of silence, and then Peter comes rushing to him.</p><p>“Tony, Tony,” he breathes wetly, turning him over onto his back with small, soft hands, so much gentler than Larry’s, and Tony feels a ridiculous semblance of <em>calm </em>drop over him.</p><p>“‘S alright,” Tony manages to reply. “‘S okay.”</p><p>The kid swipes furiously at his eyes, shifting back and forth in the customary way of his that he slips into when he’s anxious. “I’m gonna… uh, I’m - I’m gonna get you something. What should I…?”</p><p>“Bath.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Bath, cold water. It helps with the…”</p><p>“Oh, right. Okay. Okay. Can you sit?”</p><p>Tony makes it to his feet with Peter’s support and a bitten-off moan. Together, they hobble the three feet to the bathtub; Peter lowers him in fully-clothed, fills tubs of water from the sink and pours them in, fills, pours, fills, pours, and Tony floats for a while in the pleasant rhythm of it, half-forgetting his pain.</p><p>“Okay,” Peter says again once it’s filled. “Can you…? Is that good?”</p><p>“Great, kid,” he mumbles around a mouthful of congealing blood. “Good. Good job. Go to sleep, I can… I’ll take care of myself. I’ll clean up later.”</p><p>Peter’s gaze darts to the bloodstains on the floor at the reminder. “No, I can do it. I wanna.”</p><p>Struck with a sudden pang, Tony reaches for his hand, squeezes it tight. “Good kid,” he manages, injecting as much sincerity as he can into the praise. “Such an… amazing kid.”</p><p>Peter’s eyes are that of a deer’s, wide, innocent, afraid.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Tony is late to wake up the morning after; a glance at his watch has him rushing to sit up in bed at the behest of his split skin, but then he notices Peter sitting against the wall by his bed. </p><p>Realising Tony is up, the kid produces a bowl of soggy cereal. “Cheerios?”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>It becomes an unspoken routine of theirs. On days when Peter has to keep his hands crushed over his ears for too long to block out hit after hit, he quietly goes about cleaning the Room, making meals, acting as Tony’s arms and legs when Tony’s own are too battered to function, and sits by his side during breakfast with a bowl at his side. At times when Larry won’t keep away from Peter and Tony wakes semi-constantly to grunts and whimpers and creaks, Tony hands him his breakfast in the afternoon and reads aloud to him in his boring, croaking voice that for some reason calms Peter instantly until the kid breaks out of his daze and gets up. </p><p>On the 10th of October 2017, the kid has been thirteen for two months. After four consecutive nights where Larry visited and chose Peter, he awakes with a quiet whine of discomfort. Tony knows exactly why, and he hates it.</p><p>He greets Peter with a soft, “Hi.”</p><p>Peter is silent for a long time, face drawn. He already looks so much paler than when he’d first been dragged into the Room, face ringed with dark circles. He isn’t getting enough sunlight, enough nutrients. A kid deserves so much more than the Room.</p><p>And this particular kid? Tony thinks he deserves the world. Especially after this.</p><p>Then he admits in a whisper, “It hurts.”</p><p>This is new. The kid never speaks about his time with Larry, never admits to any distress or discomfort afterwards. It must be really bad for him to put a voice to his pain.</p><p>The thought boosts Tony into action immediately. “Hey, how about… how about you have some time on the couch instead? Change of scenery might be nice.”</p><p>At Peter’s subdued nod, he reaches out and helps to slowly ease him into a sitting position, trying his best to be gentle enough for the kid. Then he helps him up, cupping his hands around Peter’s elbows and encouraging his shuffling steps forward. In a combined, exhausted effort - neither of them have slept much - they make it to the couch. </p><p>“Here, there you go,” Tony rambles as Peter curls up against the mouldering cushions. As hard as he tries, he can’t keep his eyes away from the crooked trail of small, round bruises mottling the kid’s jaw, neck, shoulders: not the kind of bruises Tony sees on himself after a session with Larry, but bruises of a wholly more appalling breed.</p><p>As a second thought, he grabs a pillow from his own bed. “Try putting this under.”</p><p>The kid slides it lethargically beneath his hips, looking away from Tony, then exhales unsteadily.</p><p>“Any better?”</p><p>The kid deliberates, opens his mouth, but says nothing.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“I miss my life,” Peter blurts in a vulnerable moment.</p><p>“Yeah, me too,” says Tony.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Tony tries his best to hold himself together because now he <em>has </em>to: he’s got a kid who needs someone strong, but it’s that kid who tears him apart.</p><p>When it was Tony getting hit? When it was only his own health and life and dignity at stake? Somehow, it was bearable.</p><p>But when Tony has to lie awake in bed night after night and hear the things Larry does to the kid--</p><p>The things he’s helpless to do anything about--</p><p>It’s the worst. The fucking <em>worst. </em></p><p>“Not tonight. Please,” he hears Peter mutter on the 18th of October, just past 2 am.</p><p>“What? You wanna try it this way round?”</p><p>“No. I just - I don’t wanna.”</p><p>The response is no louder than the last, but Larry’s tone darkens.“You <em> don’t wanna </em>?”</p><p>The only response is a nervous exhale.</p><p>“Would you rather I took it out on Tony?”</p><p>Tony knows it’s a bluff. Larry manipulates them both, he knows they both hate to see the other hurt, but Peter is young, Peter is afraid, Peter trusts unabashedly, and his heart aches to hear the kid scrambling to plead with his captor: “No. No. It’s alright - please don’t.”</p><p>
  <em> Let him, kid. Let him try and tear me apart. I can take it. You shouldn’t have to. You shouldn’t have to. Goddamn psychopath-- </em>
</p><p>“God, it’s like it would kill you to stop complaining for half a second. You should be grateful. Who pays the bills, huh? Who keeps you holed up comfortably in here when you could be out on the streets?”</p><p>That stops Tony.</p><p>“You do,” Peter replies so quietly Tony barely makes out his voice across the twelve feet.</p><p>“You’ve got no idea what it’s like out there nowadays. No idea. Nothing in that stupid little head of yours. You’re no good for anything except this.”</p><p>The rage almost overtakes Tony then, rage at the sick sort of villain that would take a kid like Peter - a kid who mouths along to Battlestar Galactica, who fights to the death over the placement of a toothpick in a crappy little sculpture, who does the dishes when Tony can’t, whose smile could light a cathedral - and reduce him to an <em>object</em>. Tony clenches his fists, his jaw, his chest, anything to keep from leaping in like the time when he’d only gotten the kid in more danger.</p><p>The best thing Tony can do for Peter right now is to <em>ignore him</em>.</p><p>“Now will you say thank you?” Larry whispers.</p><p>“Thank you. I’m… I’m really grateful.”</p><p>“Yeah, right.”</p><p>Then the creaks begin, and Peter lets out a panicked yelp that Larry quickly silences with a sickeningly sweet croon of “Shhh,” and the anger flows over Tony in rivulets hotter than the sting of any belt, filling the tiny room, the room him and Peter will die in, trapped, trapped, <em> God fuck awful can’t bear it-- </em></p><p>
  <em> Click. </em>
</p><p>Tony raises his head from his pillow just slightly and peers into the dark to see Peter with his back to the room and face pressed into the corner. He grips his hair in trembling hands, tightens fists around it then falteringly smooths it out as if in self-comfort. Though he tries to calm his rapid breaths, Tony can hear them. He hears it all.</p><p>The kid hates to know that Tony’s seen what he’s done with Larry, turns away any offers of comfort until the morning - Tony would know, he’s tried.</p><p>He feels himself falling, but he doesn’t think about it. Strong people don’t fall. They just don’t. So he decides he won’t fall, won't even falter.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Tony’s going insane. He can tell because the orderly rows of thoughts lining his mind like they’re hung out on a rack to dry are being put through a blender, words spilling from his head and crowding into the Room, colliding with one another and breaking apart into jagged letters, sounds and phrases which all sound to him like cries of despair.</p><p>The horror of it all, of years of being stuck in this fucking Room, this goddamn - this - <em> shit </em> - </p><p>And then he’s shedding tears of agony as a burning-hot wad of unprocessed pain dislodges itself from deep in the pit of his stomach and begins to force its way out through the walls of his skin. <em> Out. Out. Out. Out. </em> Tony covers his mouth with a hand, tries to quiet the noises he’s making--</p><p>“I’m awake, you know,” the kid interjects, startling Tony, who hastily scrubs away his tears.</p><p>“Geez, kiddo, you scared me.”</p><p>Peter doesn’t respond but pulls up a folding chair to sit opposite Tony in the dark.</p><p>“We’re both light sleepers, huh?” Tony remarks, trying to school his face into a neutral expression, trying his best not to think of the creaking and whimpering and grunting.</p><p>Peter nods slowly.</p><p>Tipping his head back, Tony regards the skylight and the small area of soundproofing around the rim that it illuminates. The moon must be somewhere out there, but all he sees is black.</p><p>All of a sudden, the air feels a good deal more stale. <em> Out. Out. Out. Going insane. </em></p><p>“Tell me about your family,” Peter says.</p><p>For the rest of his life, Tony will never figure out just why the kid asked him that particular question at that precise moment, but he will think of it as a turning point in his time in the Room, a turn upwards and out of the depths of despair despite the odds.</p><p>Tony tells him. He waxes poetic about Pepper’s perfections, regales him with farcical tales of his escapades with Rhodey and his wild friends in college, even recalls aloud memories from his early years, and Peter, who has been ashen-faced and quiet for weeks, laughs and grins like the kid he’s supposed to be.</p><p>“What about yours?” he finally picks up the courage to ask the kid. After Larry’s remark, there’s a part of him that longs to know.</p><p>Maybe it’s the quiet and dark of the night, maybe it’s the newfound lightness in Peter’s heart despite the crushingly tiny room they’re trapped in, maybe it’s the mere presence of Tony, Tony who is loving, Tony who is a beacon of safety - but Peter opens up.</p><p>“I was four when my parents died. So… I don’t remember them much, even though I try. I do try, really hard, to remember. Sometimes I’ll be waiting around for something and I’ll just - try to remember. Small moments, like them holding my hands - I don’t know if that specific memory is actually real or just, you know, me making something up because I want to remember <em>something</em>, but… oh, I’m - rambling. Sorry.”</p><p>“Don’t sweat it.” <em> We have all the time in the world</em>, Tony almost adds.</p><p>“I, uh… I lived with my aunt and uncle for ages. They’re - they were - they were the best. May couldn’t cook to save her life and Ben used to bang pots and pans to wake me up for school because I always fell asleep after my alarm.” They both laugh, and it’s warming, melodious. “They would always--”</p><p>At that, the kid lets out a strange, tight exhale, like he’s hit a mental roadblock and knows his next words will hurt him. When he continues, it’s in a dull and level tone that’s unlike him.</p><p>“They would always kiss me on the forehead before I left for school. I lived with them until April 2017. They died in a mugging two blocks from their favourite bodega. They’d been getting me sandwiches to celebrate my report card. Straight A-pluses. Wish I’d failed all my classes.”</p><p>There’s a beat, but somehow Tony can tell that Peter isn’t finished yet.</p><p>“Um.” The kid swallows heavily, drags a hand across his face like a man much older than himself. “Got put into the system, of course. It wasn’t… it wasn’t like the horror stories you hear, not exactly. But it wasn’t <em> good </em>. And one day, I thought I saw a man looking at me funny when I was walking to school, and then I swore he was standing by the gates too as I came out at the end of the day, but who was I gonna tell about that? I didn’t, I didn’t have… you know. I walked back to the home - except I didn’t. I never made it. So...”</p><p>Peter shrugs harshly.</p><p>“Yeah. I have no-one.”</p><p>Tony’s a black hole, a gaping pit of anger and dismay.</p><p>
  <em> Why do the best people always have to hurt the worst? </em>
</p><p>“You’ve got me,” he says. Means it more earnestly than he’s meant anything before.</p><p>Catching his eye, Peter smiles waveringly. “I’ve got you.”</p><p>A notion forms in Tony’s mind so swiftly and passionately he has no choice but to follow it: he drops to his knees in front of the kid’s chair and slowly raises his lips to Peter’s forehead, giving him ample time to back out if he’s not comfortable but glowing when he leans into the touch instead.</p><p>Some dual pull in their minds guides them into a hug, one of thousands to come as they shelter one another from the Room, a hug that captures and combines the small, bright fragments of hope and good things between them for the moment they’re connected.</p><p>Tony decides he likes kissing Peter, and it seems the kid likes being kissed, so he plants one softly in his hair, and the kid smiles, a smile full of shards of pain but a smile nonetheless.</p><p>He makes a new list.</p><p>
  <em>- Put a smile on the kid’s face whenever possible.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Stay alive.</em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Welcome back to the Badlands, folks!<br/>I've fallen head over heels for the response to the last chapter. I definitely cried at a few of the comments. Y'all are *superstars*. Thank you so much!!<br/>Remember to heed the trigger warning below and stay safe, lovelies!</p><p>Trigger warning for Chapter 2 (this warning contains spoilers): </p><p>Descriptions and mentions of child rape; swearing; description of physical abuse, flashbacks, a mental breakdown; allusions to sensory overload and panic.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em> 2017 </em>
</p><p><br/>...<br/><br/><br/></p><p>
  <em> 2018 </em>
</p><p><br/>...<br/><br/><br/></p><p>
  <em> 2019 </em>
</p><p><br/>...<br/><br/><br/></p><p>
  <em> 8th August 2020 </em>
</p><p><em> Beep. </em> 8 am.</p><p>“Kiddo. Morning.”</p><p>He receives a muffled groan in response, a sound only a teenager could muster.</p><p>“<em> It’s time for Peter to wake up, he’s turning sixteen real soon </em> ,” Tony sings raspily in a mimicry of <em> pop goes the weasel </em>, grabbing playfully at the pillow the kid has shoved over his head and tugging it away.</p><p>“Ugh, shut up. Cringe.”</p><p>“Cringe is subjective.”</p><p>“Yeah, and you’re subjecting it.”</p><p>“And you’re deflecting. Up and at ‘em, gotta enjoy your last few days of childhood.”</p><p>“My childhood doesn’t just disappear.”</p><p>
  <em> Oh yes, it does. Already has. </em>
</p><p>“I detect more deflection. C’mon, your Cheerio-preparing skills are unparalleled and I need a hearty breakfast.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>They unfold their customary chairs and sit at the rickety table, faces sallow and dry, reedy fingers clutching at battered old spoons in the same plastic bowls they use for everything, squinting in the low morning light, socked feet soaking up cold from the concrete floor.</p><p>Peter finishes first and sits on the exposed toilet rim - Tony hasn’t forgotten the aborted escape attempt when he’d lost the lid - to brush his teeth. Tony does the dishes.</p><p>Cardio is next. Switching on the old music channel on the TV, Tony cranks up the volume and beckons Peter over. The kid rolls his eyes; Tony rolls his back. They both enjoy it really.</p><p>
  <em> Uptown got its hustlers  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The bowery got its bums  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> 42nd street got big Jim walker  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He's a pool shootin' son of a gun  </em>
</p><p>Peter begins to mime the lyrics as he mouths them, hopping from foot to foot goofily.</p><p>
  <em> Yeah, he big and dumb as a man can come  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But he stronger than a country hoss </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And when the bad folks all get together at night  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You know they all call big Jim boss, just because  </em>
</p><p>Taking the kid’s hands, Tony tugs them back and forth, back and forth, in time with the steady thump of the beat. It tugs at his wrecked muscles, sends glancing aches through his limbs, but he ignores them, focuses instead on the kid’s peals of laughter.</p><p>
  <em> And they say  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You don't tug on superman's cape  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You don't spit into the wind  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You don't pull the mask off that old lone ranger  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And you don't mess around with Jim... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Peter settles down with a scrap of cardboard and a biro, scrawling out a mess of lines which Tony knows by now will materialise into some fantastical masterpiece in an hour or two. The kid’s drawings are plastered all over the walls by his bed, scraps of greaseproof paper and card from food packaging blooming with the contents of his imagination. He’s good, really good.</p><p>“What’s this one?” he asks over the kid’s shoulder.</p><p>“You and me.”</p><p>A dopey grin spreads across Tony’s face. </p><p>“Riding a dragon.”</p><p>They laugh.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“I miss pancakes. They’re my favourite breakfast.”</p><p>Tony shakes his head critically. “Wrong answer. Waffles all the way.”</p><p>“How can you <em> say </em> that?”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Peter always helps him with the cleaning. Sometimes he even bats Tony away when he’s having trouble bending over. </p><p>There’s a silent solidarity to the way they kneel together now, scrubbing the concrete with their rags.</p><p>Tony ruffles the kid’s hair affectionately as he stands to tackle the damp area around the bathtub.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p>“Whatever you do, don’t touch this one. It’s a live wire. You come into contact with it, you become part of the current.”</p><p>“What’s wrong with that? Sounds cool.”</p><p>“Not cool. Very not cool. You get electrocuted, basically. Two hundred and thirty volts - <em> ka-pow </em> - shooting right through you. <em> Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars </em>, you know what I mean?”</p><p>“Oh. That’s definitely not cool.”</p><p>The old TV lies, half-dissected, in front of them, a mess of fraying wires and dust.</p><p>“What’s our first move? Wanna take a guess?”</p><p>Peter squints, tilting his head to the side as he leans forwards to inspect the wiring. “Something with… that one?” He points to a fine green wire attached to the motherboard. “Re-route it, maybe?”</p><p>“Bingo.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“I miss dogs,” Tony says as they sit on the couch together, Peter curled into Tony’s chest, Tony with his arms looped around the kid’s thin frame. The 5th episode of Battlestar Galactica they own is playing; the kid mouths along absent-mindedly to the dialogue.</p><p>This is a precious time of the day: the time when Tony can soak up all of the kid’s goodness in his embrace and he can pour out his own into the boy in his arms.</p><p>With a smile, Peter replies: “Yeah. Oh my God, yeah. Especially Samoyeds. Little clouds of fluff. Ever seen one?”</p><p>“Nah. They sound good.”</p><p>“I hugged one once. I think I cried a little.” Peter huffs out a laugh. “Just… the softest thing you ever felt.”</p><p>Tony closes his eyes, pictures the softness.</p><p>Picturing is all they have.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“What does <em> dubious </em> mean?”</p><p>“What sentence is it in?”</p><p>“‘Therefore I go, dubious but elate, apprehensive of intolerable pain…’”</p><p>“Dubious is like… if you’re dubious, you’re hesitant. Doubtful. So - which character is this?”</p><p>“Neville.”</p><p>“Pretentious name.”</p><p>“I know.” </p><p>“Do you think British people still name their kids Neville out there?”</p><p>“I hope not.” Tony can hear the smirk in Peter’s voice. </p><p>“So - Neville is <em> dubious but elate </em>, he’s kind of nervous and hesitant about going, but he’s elated, too. Really excited. Pumped. As pumped as you can be.”</p><p>“He’s gonna travel around the world,” Peter adds, sounding lost in the story.</p><p>“Read the passage?”</p><p>“I shall be free to enter the garden where Fenwick raises his mallet. Those who have despised me shall acknowledge my - my sovereignty. But by some in- inscrutable? Some inscrutable law of my being sovereignty and the possession of power will not be enough; I shall always push through curtains to privacy, and, and want some whispered words alone. Therefore I go, dubious but elate; apprehensive of intolerable pain; yet I think bound in my adventuring to conquer after huge suffering, bound, surely, to discover my desire in the end.”</p><p>Silence descends upon the Room as Peter finishes. The words let the world in, just for a moment. <em> Sovereignty </em> and <em> adventure </em> and <em> desire </em> and <em> privacy </em> and <em> elate </em> seep into the walls and leave deposits of hope.</p><p>“That one’s really pretty,” Tony remarks softly.</p><p>Peter folds down the corner of the page.</p><p>Hovering his hand over the lamp switch, Tony says, “Ready to sleep?”</p><p>“Uh huh.”</p><p>Darkness descends on the room at 10:48 pm.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>At 1:31 am, there’s a <em> click. </em></p><p>“Hi, kid.”</p><p>“Larry,” begins Peter quietly, and Tony gets an instant gut feeling that the kid’s about to say something he won’t like to hear. “You should - I think you should punish me more.”</p><p>“Telling me what to do, huh? What, do you like this? Want more?”</p><p>“I mean - me, not Tony.”</p><p>
  <em> Fuck. Stop it, kid, stop it. </em>
</p><p>“You know you can’t choose. I don’t know what gives you that idea. It’s not like we’re fucking ordering lunch here.”</p><p>“He’s old. He’s, uh, he’s boring. But I’m young, I can take more. Right? It’s not that hard to just… choose me instead?”</p><p>Tony’s seen the kid eyeing him as he rises from chairs, straightens out with a grunt, but didn’t think it would come to <em> this </em>. He knew Peter worried a little about him - Tony worries about himself, about the bruises that don’t leave his skin for weeks, about the wrist that hasn’t healed in five years, about the way his bones rasp against one another - but this...</p><p>“No, kiddo, it’s not hard at all. Don’t worry, I still pay attention to you.”</p><p>“Don’t call me <em> kiddo </em>.”</p><p>“You’re cute when you're all worked up.”</p><p>The kid won’t raise his voice, not when he wants Tony to be asleep, but he begins to plead all the same. “No, you didn’t - listen to me - please, Larry--”</p><p>“Shut up.” It’s quiet but sharp as knives.</p><p>The creaking begins. </p><p>“Now remember what happened the last time you acted up, woke Tony up? All those years ago. Remember what I said I’d do?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Peter whispers unevenly.</p><p>“Don’t do it again.”</p><p>The kid has gotten better at staying quiet. The whimpers have faded over the years, but the creaking, creaking, creaking, never ceases.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“Kid, I gotta talk to you,” Tony says at breakfast the next morning. It’s at the table. Larry’s visits are often enough now that the Cheerio offerings have disappeared.</p><p>Peter hums inquisitively.</p><p>“You… I heard you last night.”</p><p>Instantly, the light in Peter’s eyes sharpens. He sets down his spoon in favour of crossing his arms defensively.</p><p>As much as he knows that Peter hates to talk about it, hates when Tony brings it up - sometimes he shouts, sometimes he cries, sometimes his face goes blank and it takes hours for Tony to coax him back to life - but there’s no way he will sit by another night and hear his kid saying that.</p><p>He doesn’t know at what point Peter went from being <em> the kid </em> to <em> his kid </em>. That’s just the way it is now.</p><p>“You can’t say those things. You can’t offer to take my place. Okay? I really… I really don’t want you to do that. You’re gonna put yourself in more danger.”</p><p>Peter sits in stony silence for a moment or two after Tony finishes, then bursts: “Well, you shouldn’t have heard it.”</p><p>“But I did.”</p><p>The short reply draws a huff of irritation from the kid. “But you - have you ever heard of privacy? You’re not, you’re not supposed to be listening to that. You’re supposed to leave me alone in the night. That’s the deal.”</p><p>Tony can’t help but get angry at that, at Peter acting like he runs the place. Tony spent a year inside the Room before the kid even came along. Tony sets the pace. Tony knows what’s best. “Oh, <em> that’s the deal </em>, is it? And you make the rules?”</p><p>“<em> One </em> rule! That’s the only thing I want, but you always stay awake! You never let me alone!” Peter’s voice pitches upwards in growing anger.</p><p>“I <em> can’t </em>!” Rising tensely from his chair, Tony gestures to the Room, the stupid fucking Room, with a wild sweep. “I can’t let you alone, it’s a fucking twelve-by-twelve-foot space!”</p><p>“You don’t own me, okay? I can say whatever I want to him.”</p><p>Tony’s reply is low, firm. “Not if you’re gonna risk yourself.”</p><p>Darting from his chair and rounding on Tony, Peter yells, “I can take it! I can take it! I don’t want him to hurt you anymore!”</p><p>Tony replies almost scathingly.“Come on, kid, he’s gonna hurt us both no matter what. And I’m not letting you make it worse for yourself. I’m the adult.”</p><p>“No, it - it doesn’t even <em> matter </em>! You don’t know how hard it is for me! I’ve gotta hear him hitting you--”</p><p>“And I have to hear him <em> raping </em>you!”</p><p>The moment it leaves his mouth, Tony knows he’s crossed a line.</p><p>Peter staggers back like he’s been hit, face falling.</p><p>They don’t argue often, but when they do, it’s explosive.</p><p>“Peter, I didn’t - I’m sorry.”</p><p>The fallout is always the worst part because they can’t leave to cool off, can’t talk to anyone else. They have to figure it out, and fast.</p><p>They <em> cannot </em> afford to fall out. They just <em> can’t </em>. </p><p>Turning away from Tony, the kid scrambles over to his bed, sits on top of the covers in a tight tangle of limbs and presses his face against the wall, hands tracing the ragged edges of the scrap paper drawings hung there.</p><p>“That was a bad thing to say. I’m sorry.”</p><p>When Peter still won’t answer him, Tony approaches and grabs one of his hands desperately. “I didn’t mean to say it.”</p><p>“You know I don’t like to talk about it,” Peter whispers wetly.</p><p>“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”</p><p>Finally, the kid turns back to face him, letting himself fall into Tony’s open arms. Tony plants a kiss to Peter’s hairline, rubs a hand up and down his back rhythmically. <em> Up, down, up, down, up </em>.</p><p>“I’m sorry for getting mad,” mumbles Peter, sniffing erratically.</p><p>“It’s okay. I won’t talk about it. We’re okay.”</p><p><em> You still have him, </em> Tony thinks, trying to calm himself, <em> you still have him. </em></p><p>
  <em> Don’t you dare lose him. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 10th August 2020 </em>
</p><p><em> Beep.  </em>8 am.</p><p>Tony creeps over to the kid’s bed and crouches beside his bed where the pulled-up covers reveal only the top half of his face, slack in sleep.</p><p>“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Peter… Happy birthday to you. No? Was that not loud enough?”</p><p>Peter snores softly.</p><p>“Huh, clearly not.”</p><p>Struck with a sudden, ridiculous idea, Tony fishes out the pan from the kitchen cupboard and a wooden spoon, creeps back over to the kid’s bed, pauses for a moment, then begins to clash them together.</p><p>“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!” He crows as loud as his beaten-down voice will allow. “Happy birthday dear Peter… Happy birthday to you!”</p><p>Peter startles awake; the look of pure bewilderment on his face is priceless.</p><p>Tony clangs the pan a few more times for effect. “Good morning, young man. Happy sweet six--”</p><p>“Stop!” Peter shouts, palms over his ears.</p><p>Tony stops in his tracks.</p><p>He sees Peter like that all the time, watches him cover his ears every time Larry chooses him, and the gesture takes him there for a second.</p><p>“Oh my God, I can wake up by myself,” the kid snaps, throwing off the covers and stalking past Tony.</p><p>“What a nice greeting. I see Grumpy Teenage Peter is making an appearance today.” It’s intended light-heartedly but carries an undertone of hostility. “I’ll allow it, but only because it’s your birthday.”</p><p>“I know it’s my birthday. Can we stop talking about it?”</p><p>Something is up.</p><p>Peter is impossible to reason with when he's in these moods, so Tony just holds up his hands, one carrying the pan and the other with the wooden spoon, and sighs. “Okay, sure. Bath Day, remember?”</p><p>“Yeah, of course I remember.” </p><p>Peter’s tone has lost its bite; he just sounds defeated.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The kid is off all day, won’t smile as easily as Tony likes.</p><p>He <em> needs </em> Peter to be happy. It’s like a part of him stops functioning without it. And this sullen Peter is worse even than sad Peter. At least sad Peter will talk to him, seek comfort. Tony can help sad Peter.</p><p>This Peter is giving him nothing to work with and it's difficult not to let that rile him up.</p><p>“Good?” he prompts in the direction of the kid who sits vacantly before the shrunken cake they’d made together. Not enough flour. It’s a sad little thing, a lump of plain vanilla batter covered stingily in icing sugar, but at the same time it’s an object of wild excitement because it’s a <em> cake </em>.</p><p>Peter just sighs.</p><p>“Kid, it’s <em> cake </em>.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“Won’t you let me try?”</p><p>“You won’t like it.”</p><p>“So are we just gonna give up on it?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“It can’t be that bad--”</p><p>“Yes, it <em> is </em> . It’s bad. It’s all bad. It <em> sucks </em>.” Dropping his fork abruptly, Peter screws his hand into a fist on the table.</p><p>Tony reins in his annoyance. He understands. “I know, kid, but--”</p><p>Peter cuts him off almost instantly, face locked in a scowl. “Don’t say <em> but </em> ! There is no <em> but </em>!” </p><p>He pauses, turning his gaze to Tony, then says more quietly but no less accusingly, “But<em> you </em> think there is.”</p><p>“What are you talking about?”</p><p>“Why have we never tried to escape?” bursts Peter, standing and beginning to pace back and forth between the walls in a way Tony remembers doing himself years ago.</p><p>Tony covers his face with a hand. In an unyielding tone, he says, “You know what happened when I tried.”</p><p>“But there’s two of us now, we can try again, we can do it better.” Peter’s demeanour takes on a frantic energy; he gesticulates as he rambles. “I was thinking, we could try it when he goes for me, when he’s, he’s climbing onto my bed - you could run out and hit him and I could grab him from the front and then we’d have him trapped and - and--”</p><p>“And what? How will we get out of the door?”</p><p>“We make him tell us the code!”</p><p>Tony is sick of escape attempts. Of hope. “That’s fucking ridiculous, kid,” he retorts. “Grow up.”</p><p>Peter fumes. “I <em> have </em> grown up! I’ve grown up in here, four years - I turned thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, now sixteen, and I’m <em> still </em> stuck. I need to get out!”</p><p>This is when Tony loses it. He pushes back his chair with a shrill scrape, slams a fist down on the table, and shouts, “We <em> can’t get out </em>!”</p><p>They both pause at the outburst. Then, in a low voice, Peter says, “Do you even want to?”</p><p>Tony gapes at him.</p><p>“When you took me around the Room for the first time, you were so <em> excited </em> to show me everything.”</p><p>“No, don’t you <em> dare </em> accuse me of wanting to stay here. You weren’t there, that first year, that first year when I had nobody, I nearly lost my mind.”</p><p>“But then I came.” </p><p>Peter locks his eyes on Tony, betrayal on his face.</p><p>“You just wanna stay here with me forever, don’t you?”</p><p>Taking an aborted step towards the kid, Tony cries hoarsely: “<em> No </em> ! No. How could you <em> think </em> that?”</p><p>“Then why won’t you try and leave?”</p><p>“Because it’s <em> useless </em>.” </p><p>Tony is done arguing in circles, done, done, done, <em> done </em>.</p><p>Peter clenches his jaw, buries his hands in his hair. “I can’t - I won’t give up! It’s awful in here and you know it, it’s <em> awful </em>!”</p><p>“You think I don’t know that? I know it sucks! I know your life is ruined. Well, guess what? So is mine. Are you happy?”</p><p>
  <em> Click. </em>
</p><p>Every inch of Tony’s anger drops away from him in an instant.</p><p>
  <em> Larry. </em>
</p><p>He crowds the kid into the corner and shields him, doesn’t bother to sit, just splays his arms on either side of him so they touch the walls.</p><p>“Don’t bother,” slurs Larry, slamming the door behind him and grasping instantly for Tony.</p><p> Tony may have gone five years without the smell of alcohol, but he recognizes it on Larry’s breath all the same. Whether it’s a good or bad thing, he can’t yet tell.</p><p>Peter turns to the wall, plants his hands over his ears. For a moment, Larry seems distracted by the sight, smiling crookedly in the kid’s direction. “Adorable little boy.”</p><p>And Tony doesn’t care that he’s just spent the day fighting with the kid, because he’s spent four years unable to protect him from this <em> monster - </em>and at the sight of him, every molecule, every atom of the fury he’d felt at Peter directs itself at Larry.</p><p>“Don’t you <em> fucking look at him! </em>” he screams, throwing the fiercest punch of his life.</p><p>There’s a split second of time that he will remember forever, a fragment of time when he almost believes that he might win. Peter’s hare-brained plan might just work.</p><p>But then he realises--</p><p>He’d used his bad hand.</p><p>Tony catches a tiny glimpse of Peter twisting in place to look at him, eyes widened, <em> eyes open, he’s gonna see, shit </em>, before he crumples into himself around the explosion of pain that rockets through his wrist.</p><p>Larry shoves him to the floor instantly; Tony is so shocked by the pain he’s already in, he forgets to tuck his head inwards and it cracks against the bare concrete.</p><p>“Larry, please don’t…” he hears dimly.</p><p>“I can do what I fucking want, kiddo!” A kick to Tony’s side. “You hear me down there? You piss me off, you get punished. Can’t believe you fucking <em> hit me </em>.”</p><p>Kick.</p><p>Kick.</p><p>Hit.</p><p>Hit.</p><p>Spit.</p><p>Kick.</p><p>Kick.</p><p>Kick.</p><p>Belt.</p><p>Belt.</p><p>Grab.</p><p>Hit.</p><p>Hit.</p><p>Drop.</p><p>Belt.</p><p>“Come to bed,” Peter intervenes through a heart in his mouth, half hoping his begging will work, a more shameful half praying it won’t. “Larry. Let’s go to bed.”</p><p>There’s no verbal answer, just another deafening whip to Tony’s comatose form on the floor. Peter feels the burn of each hit.</p><p>“Come to bed.”</p><p>Belt.</p><p>“Please, Larry.”</p><p>Belt.</p><p>Belt.</p><p>“Come to - come to…”</p><p>And then Peter’s heart stops.</p><p>Then Larry takes the knife out of the kitchen cupboard.</p><p>“Don’t!” he cries, panic clouding his vision, and takes a few faltering steps towards him and Tony, hands outstretched. “Pick me instead!”</p><p>Larry doesn’t reply.</p><p>Knife.</p><p>Knife.</p><p>Knife.</p><p>Shallow cuts. The blade is so blunt Larry has to jam it downwards to force it into Tony’s skin.</p><p>“Stop,” Peter sobs, “Stop, please stop, pick me instead, Larry, pick me instead.”</p><p>Suddenly, Larry throws the knife across the room where it ricochets off the wall an inch away from Peter’s head. He charges the few feet to the corner of the room, jams an elbow into Peter’s throat, and snarls, “<em> Don’t tempt me </em>.”</p><p>Now Peter’s begun to cry, he can’t stop. He cries as Larry flings him onto the floor on his stomach, as his face lands just centimetres from a spreading pool of blood that seeps from Tony’s chest. He cries as he hears the sound that’s come to haunt him the most over the four years he’s been in the Room: the sound of pants unzipping. He cries as a weight lowers itself onto him, crushing him agonisingly against the concrete. He cries as the rocking begins, back and forth, back and forth. He cries as Larry grunts into his ear. He cries as hands touch everywhere, pull off his shirt, manhandle him like a piece of meat. He cries as teeth bite bruises on his neck.</p><p>He cries as Larry finally pulls away, re-adjusts his pants, and walks out of the Room without a word, leaving him and Tony slumped on the floor together, Peter sobbing so hard he might throw up, half-naked, scared, alone, alone, alone--</p><p>
  <em> “What makes a person a real person? If someone has everything they need, but nobody, do they have everything? Or nothing?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“Tony.”</p><p>Peter breathes. Swipes away his tears. Slowly, tremulously, gets to his feet. Pulls up his boxers and pants.</p><p>“Tony. Can you hear me?”</p><p>Decides to ball up his t-shirt and press it to Tony's most concerning wounds instead of putting it on and providing himself a little of the protection he so desperately craves.</p><p>“Please - please don’t… please wake up.”</p><p>He can barely make out the features he recognizes in Tony through the gore coating the man’s face. Fumbling for the pillow on his bed, he lifts Tony’s head and slides it under. Grabs the plastic basin, fills it with water as fast as the tap will run, dumps in every spare garment he owns, and takes one out to clean the blood from Tony’s face with hands that shake so violently he can barely maintain his grip on the sodden clothes.</p><p>“I’m so sorry, Tony, I yelled at you and then he came in and I didn’t keep him away and…” An audible exhale escapes him then, halfway between a breath and a cry of anguish. “Oh God, God, God, don’t go, don’t go. <em> Tony </em>. Please.”</p><p>It overtakes him then, a tidal wave of panic that has him clutching at his bare chest with the sudden lack of air there. He opens, closes, opens his mouth, makes all the motions that create breath, but nothing happens.</p><p>At a loss for what else to do, Peter grabs a cloth in a vice grip and presses it to a knife mark, takes another and staunches the second mark, then the third, his vision crowding in on him.</p><p>At last, at <em> last </em>, something restarts in his airway and he gulps in a huge breath, bowing over himself. Another. Another. He’s greedy for the air.</p><p>Next, he pulls away the rags of Tony’s t-shirt, hating himself as he does it, knowing just how it feels when people don’t ask permission - “Sorry, Tony, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ll cover you again real soon, alright?” - and does his best to clean the battlefield of welts and bruises across his shoulders and back and front with nothing but some fabric and water. Tony remains limp, unresponsive. <em> He won’t wake up, he won’t wake up, he won’t wake up. </em></p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Peter pushes the sofa to one side so it’s against the bathtub, lays on the floor with Tony, and watches Battlestar Galactica.</p><p>They share the same bloodstained pillow.</p><p>“Gonna be okay,” Peter whispers to Tony, who has Peter’s duvet laid over him now. “Gonna be, gonna be just fine. Just like the show. We don’t have the last episode, remember, so it feels like everything’s bad, but it’s - it’s - it’ll all be okay. Just wait.”</p><p>He has Tony’s slack hand clenched in his own. He won’t let go.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Peter remembers days when he did nothing but sleep, when he’d turn away every time Tony tried to wake him.</p><p>He wonders if the way he feels now is the same way Tony felt then.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t sleep. He lays with Tony, keeps holding his hand.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p>
  <em> Click. </em>
</p><p>Peter startles out of his stupor in an instant, fear ratcheting up in his throat, and covers his stomach and chest as best as he can with his arms.</p><p>Larry looks distraught as he enters and sees them both. It halts Peter for a second.</p><p>“Is he…?” Larry ventures with startling hesitancy.</p><p>Peter remembers his purpose then. “You gotta take him to a hospital,” he begs, terrified yet strangely emboldened.</p><p>“I can’t just--”</p><p>“Yes, you can. Take him to a hospital. Please. Take him.”</p><p>As Larry approaches, Peter gets the overwhelming urge to back away, but he stays by Tony’s side out of sheer willpower. Larry hooks his hands under Tony’s legs and torso then lifts him bridal-style with a grunt of effort.</p><p>“Don’t hurt him.”</p><p>Larry looks back at him, stares for a moment or two - Peter’s heart batters against his ribs - before turning and leaving.</p><p>Just before the door shuts, he catches a glimpse of grey morning sun, grass, the back of a house--</p><p>
  <em> Click. </em>
</p><p>And then there’s no-one left.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Tony had the watch. Tony knew the time.</p><p>Now, with no watch, no Tony, there is no time.</p><p>Peter floats on the floor. Sits on Tony’s bed, can’t bear his own anymore without Tony there to chase the demons away from it, make it a mundane thing rather than the stuff of nightmares.</p><p>Then he decides to be pragmatic.</p><p>He finds and pulls on Tony’s spare t-shirt, shifts the couch back into its accustomed place, neatens the rug, makes both the beds, squeezes out the wet clothes in the basin then hangs them out, bloodstains and all, to dry on the line, scrubs the smears of blood from the floor, scrubs, scrubs, scrubs, scrubs, until everything is clean.</p><p>He puts together a cheese sandwich, slides it in the toaster, waits at the table for it to cook, then drifts away.</p><p>The smell of burning assaults him. Bolting up from his chair, he tosses the blackened hunk of bread into his plastic bowl.</p><p>“Oh, God,” he says, dropping his head into his hands where he stands, feeling himself crumbling.</p><p>He can still hear the echoes of the belt, the hits, the hits--</p><p>Turning slowly, clumsily, he takes in the Room, the Room he sometimes managed to forget the tiny parameters of when engrossed by the TV, the infectious sound of Tony’s laugh, the soft way he hummed a tune. The Room that seems so much smaller now.</p><p>The Room that’s crushing him, crushing him, squeezing his heart until it bursts and he slides to the floor.</p><p>“Oh, God. God. God.”</p><p>
  <em> Belt. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Belt. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Belt. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Don’t tempt me.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Creak. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Creak. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Creak. </em>
</p><p>“Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, <em> stop </em>--”</p><p>He repeats it until he’s screaming it, but the noises rise above it.</p><p>After what might have been half a minute or half an hour, his voice shatters and he stops.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>He slips.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The light grows, fades.</p><p>He’s gonna stay stuck in the Room forever. Alone.</p><p>It’s poetic that Tony was stuck here before him, and now Peter’s here after Tony.</p><p>Peter stumbles from one end of the Room to the other, endlessly, back and forth, back and forth--</p><p>
  <em> Rocking forward and back, forward and back-- </em>
</p><p>Until he crashes into a chair, staggers to the floor and stays there.</p><p>The Room shrinks to the size of the skylight, a blade of light streaming through the glass despite the darkness around it because--</p><p>Because the moon is out.</p><p>Peter stares. He hasn’t seen the moon in four years.</p><p>He stares, stares, stares, stares, stares, until his eyes water, and then he starts to cry.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> CLANG </em>
</p><p>The noise comes from the door - Peter can tell from the direction of the source and the metallic edge to it - but it’s unlike any sound he associates with that door. It’s deafening.</p><p>Picking himself up and dashing for the corner, Peter huddles into it, not wanting to see what or who will greet him when the door opens. Panic. He braces his head in the crooks of his arms, trying to fold himself up so he doesn’t exist, so there’s nothing left of him to get hurt.</p><p>
  <em> CLANG </em>
</p><p>Peter can’t help the whimper of terror that escapes him then. He trembles. Every fibre of him trembles.</p><p>He’s not sure if he’ll survive another visit from Larry.</p><p>All he knows is that he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want it, doesn’t want it--</p><p>
  <em> CLANG </em>
</p><p>
  <em> CRASH. </em>
</p><p>The logical part of Peter’s brain can tell the sound is of the door falling off its hinges, but the primal part of him can’t rationalise the door ever doing that. The door <em> click </em>s, the door opens and shuts and lets in tiny shards of light, lets in the outside world for half a second then lets in Larry.</p><p>So Peter doesn’t know what to do.</p><p>Adrenaline makes the choice for him; he stays locked in place.</p><p>“Hello?” echoes a voice, a voice that isn’t Larry’s or Tony’s, and Peter remembers suddenly that there are other voices, other people.</p><p>He presses his mouth shut, jaw aching with the frenzied effort, and doesn’t move a muscle, except, of course, for the tremors that have overtaken his body.</p><p><em> Don’t get his attention </em>, Tony always told him. No-one but Tony is safe to talk to.</p><p>Then come the footsteps, closer, Peter’s heart will surely burst straight out of his chest, <em> you’re cute when you’re all worked up, </em> but they stop a few feet from him.</p><p>“Hello, kid.” The voice is calm, soothing yet authoritative, and Peter wonders how he’ll be manipulated, whether it will be false niceness or yelling or sweet-talking. “Are you Peter?”</p><p>Peter whines in fright.</p><p>“It’s alright. We’ve come to rescue you, okay? I’m from the police. My name is Anna. We found this place because of directions Tony gave us. Tony Stark.”</p><p>
  <em> Tony Stark. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tony. </em>
</p><p>“You know him, don’t you? Were you in here with him?”</p><p>Too many things, too many things are happening, whizzing around in his mind, filling it to bursting point - and all at once, the air disappears again.</p><p>He surfaces from the horror to the sound of the new person: “In... and out. Keep breathing. In, out. In, out.”</p><p>Maybe, just maybe, Anna is good.</p><p>Keeping himself crushed against the wall, Peter slowly lowers his arms from his head just a little, cranes his neck to peek at the Room.</p><p><em> Noise </em> . He hears noise, sounds, people walking around, talking, grass, <em> grass </em>, grass crunching, coughing, paper rustling, distant sirens; he sees flashing torch beams, a pale wash of moonlight spilling across the dented door which now lies on the floor, the floor where Tony had fallen--</p><p>
  <em> Belt belt belt belt belt belt knife knife knife-- </em>
</p><p>So many <em> things </em>. Peter had utterly forgotten what it was like to experience so many things happening at the same time, and it’s the best and worst thing.</p><p>“Hello,” he breathes through the hammering in his head, the attack on his ears.</p><p>The door is open. He reels in it. The Room is open.</p><p>He used to dream about leaving the Room, the door falling away, him rushing out instantly, breathing in the air, smiling pleasantly. A dumb dream. Something that wasn’t real. This is real, too real.</p><p>“Hello,” comes the measured reply. Peter turns further and catches sight of a woman sitting almost casually on the floor with her slender legs crisscrossed. <em> A woman </em>.</p><p>“What’s, what’s happening?” </p><p>He tremulously lowers his arms, wraps them tightly around his knees.</p><p>“We’ve come to take you out of here. When you’re ready to come out, we’ll take you to the hospital and you can see Tony. He was adamant that we tell you that he’s doing fine. He also said that you should trust us, and gave me this to say to you--</p><p>“Therefore I go, dubious but elate; apprehensive of intolerable pain; yet I think bound in my adventuring to conquer after huge suffering, bound, surely, to discover my desire in the end.”</p><p>
  <em> Dubious but elate. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “He’s gonna travel around the world.” </em>
</p><p>Only then does Peter really believe that all this is true.</p><p>A sob claws its way out of his throat.</p><p>“Do you think you’d be able to turn around and face me?” The voice - <em> Anna’s voice  </em>- is sympathetic but retains its firm quality. </p><p>Peter shrugs tensely, unsure what to do. Half of him cries out for Anna and Tony and the outside world, the other half screams that he should stay curled up there forever so nothing can touch him.</p><p>“Don’t worry, there’s no pressure, you don’t have to do anything. But maybe you could give it a try. It might be more comfortable for you.”</p><p>Huffing out shaking breaths, Peter manages to turn a little to the side. And a little more. And--</p><p>A torch beam pierces the inside of the Room like a drill into his skull.</p><p>He buries his head in his knees.</p><p>“Hey, it’s okay,” soothes Anna. “Just a flashlight. Nobody is going to hurt you.”</p><p>“There’s - lights, there’s - <em> oh </em>.”</p><p>“It’s alright. I understand you’ve been in here for a very long time. Your eyes must not be adjusted. Can you try turning any more?”</p><p>When Peter manages to face Anna, he feels a cocktail of mixed shame and pride bubble up within him, spiked through with the ever-present terror.</p><p>“Good. Good job. Now, how do you feel about me getting a little closer? Is this okay?”</p><p>To his own surprise, Peter finds that it <em> is </em> okay, maybe because of Anna’s high-pitched tone and the slow, steady way she walks towards him, nothing like the way Larry had leapt onto his bed and--</p><p>“Keep breathing. You’re doing great.”</p><p>“Tony’s okay?” he blurts in the tear-stained, frightened tone he can’t shake.</p><p>“Yes. Recovering very well. He’s safe, and so are you.”</p><p>This is when the primal part of Peter, the part that cries <em> stop, don’t move, keep quiet, </em>gives in at last. </p><p>The dam breaks.</p><p>Hauling himself to his feet, Peter hurtles for the broken-down door in his socked feet, clambers <em> out, out, out! Out! OUT! </em></p><p>The cold night air sears his stuttering lungs. Cold. Air. Night. The sky is covered in stars, millions of them - how are there so many? They’re bright and beautiful and the moon is the prettiest of them all, huge and round and smiling down at him.</p><p>“Look, the moon,” he exclaims faintly, not caring who listens.</p><p>The dew on the grass is seeping through his socks to his feet already, wonderfully cold, needling at his numb toes, and the breeze hits him flat in the face and almost bowls him over.</p><p>And then he turns and there are people, people, everywhere, wearing dark uniforms and police badges, holding flashlights, some inspecting the house, the backyard - <em> he was in a backyard the whole time, it was just a garden shed </em> - most looking at him.</p><p>Anna is quick to follow him. “It’s a really nice night, isn’t it?”</p><p>Peter can’t reply, words knocked clean out of his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“What’s your name?” asks another officer as they sit in the police car, a woman, because Peter can’t bear having the men talk to him.</p><p>“...Peter.”</p><p>“Surname?”</p><p>“Parker.”</p><p>“How old are you, Peter?”</p><p>“Six - sixteen.”</p><p>“Do you have any parents or relatives that we can call?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“None?”</p><p>“They died. Be-before I got stuck in there. I’m an, I’m an orphan.”</p><p>She pauses at that, brow furrowing, then continues: “Do you remember how old you were when you were first kidnapped?”</p><p>Of course Peter remembers, of <em> course </em> , he has the year and date and time ingrained for good in his memory, but his throat sticks at the word <em> kidnapped </em>. “I, uh… I was, I was… I - I can’t…”</p><p>“It’s okay. We can hold off on the questions until later. We just really need you to confirm a few important things that we heard might have happened during your imprisonment, so when you arrive at the hospital they’ll know how to treat you and keep you healthy, okay? I’m sorry if this is upsetting to you. Just give me a nod or shake your head if you don’t feel like saying anything.”</p><p>Streetlights race by outside the car window, old droplets of rain peeling off down the glass one by one. Everything is moving, all the time.</p><p>“Peter, did your captor - Larry - did he ever sexually abuse you? Touch you in a way you weren’t comfortable with, or--”</p><p>Peter nods, feeling droplets inside himself loosening from shaken edges as if from thawing stalagmites, hitting his insides like bullets.</p><p>“Okay. Was this often?”</p><p>Peter nods.</p><p>“Did it happen soon after you were first put in the shed?”</p><p>Peter nods. </p><p>“Would you describe the abuse as just inappropriate touching?”</p><p>Peter shakes his head.</p><p>“Would you describe it as rape?”</p><p>Peter nods, then covers his face with his hands.</p><p>“Thank you, Peter. I’m sorry, I’m aware that must have been very hard for you.”</p><p>Peter nods.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The hospital is huge.</p><p>Anna escorts him slowly through the doors, a hand on his upper back which is covered by the soft blanket she’d wrapped him in. It smells new and fresh. Maybe it hasn’t even been washed once. It certainly hasn’t been scrubbed weekly in cold water, hung out to dry across the Room, re-used and re-used until it’s worn through and Tony has to beg for another.</p><p>He cried when she put it on him. It reminded him of a Samoyed. <em> Little clouds of fluff. The softest thing you ever felt. </em></p><p>The doors loom tall, jostling the stars, and Peter has to stop the moment he makes it past them as harsh white lighting pierces clean through his eyes, blinds him.</p><p>He stands in place, slowly works his eyes open to Anna’s soft encouragement.</p><p>Peter realises then how ragged he is compared to the pristine sterility of the hospital wing he’s led through. Tony’s years-old t-shirt hangs too large on him; his old pants are frayed, too small, barely reaching the top of his ankles. The bathwater was dingy and cold in the Room, and besides, he’d never been able to stay clean for long before Larry decided to visit and taint him with his heat and sweat.</p><p>He notices that his hands are smudged with Tony’s blood.</p><p>Anna never pushes him to walk faster, so they end up shuffling along in tiny increments. “They’re staring at me,” he whispers to her, eyeing the bustle of people around them. He’s sure he feels a thousand gazes stabbing him with the blunt blade of the kitchen knife.</p><p>“No, they’re not. Everyone is going through something here. They’re just going about their business.”</p><p>“They are?”</p><p>“They are.”</p><p>Peter’s forgotten how it feels to be looked at by someone who doesn’t know him as well as Tony - or Larry--</p><p>He’s gotta see Tony, he’s gotta.</p><p>“He’s in here. He’s got his own room so he can have some peace and quiet.”</p><p>Peter can’t bear it anymore, has to see Tony’s face, has to know--</p><p>“Kid?”</p><p>“Tony.”</p><p>“Thank God. Christ. Thank God.”</p><p>“<em> Tony </em>.”</p><p>“Come here, kid.”</p><p>Tony’s wrapped in bandages but he’s <em> there </em>.</p><p>Peter launches himself at the hospital bed, lets Tony wind him fiercely in his arms, and sobs.</p><p>“He wouldn’t stop hitting you, he wouldn’t stop, and I tried to get him to stop even though you said that I shouldn’t because he’d hurt me and you were right, Tony, he - I was on the floor and - and you were right there and he, he did it right there on the floor--”</p><p>Tears wind down Tony’s face too as he showers Peter’s hair with kisses. “Fucking hell, I’m so sorry, I left you there--”</p><p>“Wasn’t your fault, you were - bleeding so much, you wouldn’t wake up, and I tried to make you better but I, but I couldn’t do anything and he came back and I made him take you here--”</p><p>Peter tenses.</p><p>“Is he here?”</p><p>“No. No. He’s in custody. Never gonna hurt us again.”</p><p>“Okay. <em> Huh. </em> Okay. He left me alone. I was stuck there and the last thing I did was yell at you, I’m so sorry, Tony, I’m so sorry.”</p><p>“You don’t gotta apologize,” Tony tells him, that firm, fierce tone of his distinguishable even through the uneven way he speaks the words. “You were so brave, kid, so brave. So proud of you.”</p><p>“The world is so big,” Peter breathes with a shaky laugh.</p><p>“Yeah. Huge. Let’s never stay in rooms, huh? Let’s go everywhere.”</p><p>“Let’s go everywhere, yeah.”</p><p>“Kid. Peter,” Tony murmurs over and over, as if solidifying his existence with the repetition of his name.</p><p>“Did you tell them to come get me?”</p><p>“Sure did. The moment I woke up. I wanted to go, but they told me I’d - rip out some stitches, I think. Thought it might be better for us both if I stuck around here.”</p><p>“Uh-huh.”</p><p>“Tony, Peter,” interjects Anna, a sad smile on her face, “They’re going to wheel in another bed for Peter very soon, and then you can both get some sleep. There’s a shower and toilet through that door. Peter, we’ll give you a checkup tomorrow morning.”</p><p>“Give him a checkup?” Tony questions, arms still wrapped securely around the kid.</p><p>“They’ll ask him some questions if he’s comfortable, do a couple of tests: blood, urine, so they can rule out STIs; check his vitamin levels - if they get permission from him. Nobody will go ahead with anything until Peter tells us it’s okay. You have my word on that.”</p><p>Tony nods; they both deflate a little.</p><p>“Is that alright for you both? Anything else you need?”</p><p>“No, it’s alright,” Tony answers for both of them.</p><p>“Then that’s me done. I hope you two recover well. We’re all very happy you’ve been found.”</p><p>Peter twists around briefly to see the officer who had been so kind to him. “Thank you, Anna,” he croaks. “Thank, thank you so much.”</p><p>“It’s my pleasure,” she replies with the same level tone, but Peter catches the shard of happiness contained behind it, treasures it.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“What time is it?” asks Peter.</p><p>“You wanna see the clock? I’ve got one on my nightstand.”</p><p>“No, it’s okay.”</p><p>“Midnight.”</p><p>“Midnight? Just - exactly midnight?”</p><p>“Mm-hm. Exactly midnight.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Peter and Tony sleep with their beds pushed firmly together, hands entwined.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Tony wakes to a warm light he knows somehow shouldn’t be on at this time.</p><p>“Kid?”</p><p>“Can I leave the lamp on?”</p><p>Tony cracks his eyes open to meet Peter’s wild eyes.</p><p>“I just… want it to stay light.”</p><p>“Sure, keep it on.”</p><p>“Doesn’t bother you?”</p><p>“No, ‘s all good.”</p><p>Tony understands. </p><p>“It’s gonna be okay. Okay? It’s gonna get better.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“C’mon, keep holding my hand. I’m here.”</p><p>“So glad you’re still here.”</p><p>“I’m not leaving.”</p><p>He watches the kid’s eyes slide shut once again, watches his body finally drain of tension as he settles into sleep, and finally succumbs to the pull of the drowsy drugs in his system and his tired, tired body.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Of course I was gonna have them escape, I'm not *that* much of a monster :) have faith!!<br/>Media references: the song lyrics are from You Don't Mess Around With Jim by Jim Croce, and the excerpt of Peter's book is from The Waves by Virginia Woolf - one of my new favourites! Her prose is to die for!!!<br/>I appreciate every comment and i understand completely if you wish to rail at me :) (yea ik i haven't answered any comments from chapter 1 but i'm working on it okay)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everybody! I hope you're all holding up alright and staying safe and level in these scary times. Keep on fighting. If you have the means to donate, I'm linking two organisations that I have given to below: the first bails out peaceful BLM protests in countries across the USA, and the second supports the Grassroots Law Project in their endeavours to radically transform policing and justice in America. Contributions of any size are useful. </p><p>https://secure.actblue.com/donate/glp-bail-funds-email-20200531?akid=271.5388508.Y2R8KL&amp;amounts=5%2C20%2C50%2C100%2C250%2C500%2C1000&amp;rd=1&amp;refcode=ema20200531-271&amp;refcode2=271_5388508_Y2R8KL&amp;t=20</p><p>https://secure.actblue.com/donate/glp-emails-footer?refcode=em20200601footer&amp;t=21&amp;refcode2=278_5388508_BI1CQi&amp;akid=278%2E5388508%2EBI1CQi</p><p>This next chapter has both darkness and light in it: Tony and Peter get to re-experience the wonder of the world, but are confronted at the same time with the trauma they endured. I hope y'all enjoy it :)<br/>Trigger warning for Chapter 3 (this warning contains spoilers):</p><p>Recollections of physical abuse and child rape, confinement; swearing; themes of bad mental health; allusions to panic, flashbacks, hyper-vigilance, breakdowns.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Tony wakes at 7:27 am to his nurse, Carol, adjusting his drip feed.</p><p>“Morning, early riser,” she remarks quietly, but not quietly enough. Tony knows how easily the kid wakes. Pressing a finger to his lips half-jokingly,  he raises an eyebrow in Peter’s direction. </p><p>The kid is - he’s made of pure, solid gold. He’s priceless. Most importantly, he’s <em> there </em> , right beside Tony, in the world. <em> Out. Out. Out. </em></p><p>This is the first time, Tony realises, he’s ever seen the kid outside the Room.</p><p>Carol smiles, nods, lowers her tone further. “Are you in any pain? One to ten?”</p><p>It doesn’t take a lot to make Tony remember.</p><p>Pain has been a constant for him for the last five years. Every morning, he wakes up - <em> woke up </em> - to throbbing ribs or a red-hot face or drops of browning blood on his pillow or bones that felt halfway to tearing themselves clean through his skin, and he dealt with it. But now that there are meds and nurses who speak softly to him and surgeries scheduled for the next few days and cool, thick bandages and stitches, not just sheer willpower, to hold him together, it throws the pain of the Room into even harsher clarity.</p><p>He swallows, drags a hand across his face. “Just two or three.”</p><p>“Stitches feel alright?”</p><p>“They itch a little.”</p><p>“That’s very normal, I’m afraid. But no pulling sensations or pain?”</p><p>“Nah, they’re alright.”</p><p>“Good to hear. I’m going to take your pulse and oxygen levels once more, just to make sure they haven’t gotten wonky overnight, okay?”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>Tony had cried as he woke the day before under clean sheets in a room that emanated coolness, freshness, calm. Brutally clear in his mind had been the lashes, the punches that had knocked out his vision, the kid pleading, Larry’s fists and belt and knife, unrelenting.</p><p>Carol had been there. <em> “It’s alright, honey, it’s alright. I think you deserve a good cry. You don’t have to hide it.” </em></p><p>With his first breath, he’d asked about Larry. He’d attempted to run off the moment Tony had been admitted but was pulled aside to be asked a few questions about the nature of Tony’s injuries and had cracked, throwing punches, yelling; he’d been dragged off to be held in custody until Tony could give his statement.</p><p>With his next, he’d begged to see the kid.</p><p>
  <em> “Mr. Stark, what kid? Who are you talking about?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “The - the kid, Peter, the kid. You don’t have him?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You were the only person Larry brought into the hospital.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Oh, fuck. No. No. You gotta, you gotta get him out.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Get him out of where?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “The Room.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “What room? Where is it?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I… I don’t know.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Don’t worry, Mr. Stark. We will find him.” </em>
</p><p>He’d lain half-awake in his bed, pumped through with medication and held together by his stitches and plasters, waiting, waiting for that heart-wrenchingly familiar mop of caramel curls to enter his line of vision.</p><p>Now, Peter is here, the whole world around them both, and it’s akin to teetering at the edge of a precipice filled to the brim with possibilities both thrilling and terrifying. <em> Dubious but elate </em>.</p><p>Rattling vaguely around his head are snatches of words that he doesn’t remember hearing, remarks so dim and blurry around the edges it seems as if he heard them from the bottom of a deep lake. <em> “God… Don’t go… Tony, please… cover you again real soon, alright? … just fine… Take him to a hospital… Don’t hurt him.” </em></p><p>He thinks it’s the kid’s voice.</p><p>“He’s gonna be just fine,” Carol whispers, sensing his thoughts. </p><p>Tony jerks out of his stupor. </p><p>“You looked after him real well in there.”</p><p>“No, I didn’t,” Tony counters bitterly.</p><p>“I don’t think you’re looking at it in the right way, then,” insists Carol with a righteous frown. She nods to Peter. “Look, look at him.”</p><p>Tony takes in the bruises dotting his neck, bruises that he’d gotten while Tony was inches away; his bloody hands - <em> oh my God, that’s my blood, my blood on his hands </em>; the small crease of his frown line revealing the tension still thrumming through him as he sleeps; the ratty clothes that he’d been forced to make do with; the way his curls are plastered to his head; his sheet-white face; the protective manner in which he’s folded his frail arms around himself.</p><p>“What does he look like to you?”</p><p>“Messed up. He’s all broken and - and wrong.”</p><p>It sounds like a protestation from a toddler, but it’s true all the same.</p><p>“You missed the most important things.”</p><p>Tony catches her gaze.</p><p>“Watch. He’s breathing. He’s <em> alive </em>. And look at where he is. Look at where you both are. You’re safe. And that’s because you got him out.”</p><p>Tony sighs, the sound stoppering itself in his throat before it can finish. “You don’t understand. He was twelve when he went in there. Okay? He was twelve, and - do you know what Larry did to him?”</p><p>Pursing her lips, Carol shakes her head.</p><p>“Yeah. Exactly. You don’t know. I don't even know about all of it.”</p><p>Rolling onto his back where the pain is the least distracting, Tony looks past Carol, who has been silenced by his remark, and gazes out of the window at the growing morning. August 12th, 2020.</p><p>At least the sky is untouched. Beautiful. The streaks of fiery red, soft pink, sharpening blue and faint orange that make up the heavens stretch wide across the streets where there are thousands of houses with people, people, people, people with entire lives before and behind them with no breaks, no periods of five years they wish they could slash out of their memory.</p><p>“Someone will come back in a couple of hours for Peter,” murmurs Carol levelly; she turns on her heel.</p><p>“Rhodey, Pepper - they’re on their way?”</p><p>“They’ll arrive very soon.”</p><p>
  <em> Soon, soon, soon. </em>
</p><p>People he’d become resigned to the thought of never seeing again.</p><p>People he’ll see <em> soon </em>.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Peter’s eyelids start to flutter at 10:34 am.</p><p>“Kid?”</p><p>At the sounds of Tony’s voice, the kid shoots upright, casting his gaze about wildly in the customary way of his that instantly divulges his panic, then fixes his eyes on Tony with an exhale of relief.</p><p>“Still here,” Tony rasps.</p><p>Pressing a hand briefly to his sternum, Peter nods, eyes screwing shut then re-opening.</p><p>“Look, kid, look out the window.”</p><p>The kid cranes his neck to look out of the window.</p><p>“Go up and watch. It’s really incredible-looking out there. Calms you right down.”</p><p>Easing himself off the side of his bed, Peter complies readily, flinching a little when his feet touch the floor.</p><p>“Oh, man. The floor - the floor is so weird.” He chuckles sheepishly despite himself.</p><p>“What’s it like?”</p><p>“Warm. Kind of springy. Smooth. They’ve scrubbed it really good.”<br/>Tony lets out a laugh of his own. It fills the room pleasantly, doesn’t crowd it, slips out beneath the door where there is a corridor, other rooms, a building bursting with activity.</p><p>Hesitantly, the kid approaches the window, then presses his face and hands to it.</p><p>“What do you see?”<br/>“Trees. Trees, trees - maybe, like, two hundred. No, maybe less - but lots. There’s a lot of <em> everything. </em>Woah, the car park is huge!”</p><p>Tony smiles. “Uh-huh.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“Pancakes?”</p><p>“I asked specially for them. And waffles for me.”</p><p>The smile Peter directs at him is suspiciously watery.</p><p>The kid sits before the mobile tray at the edge of his bed as if it’s a sacred object, slowly tearing off a tiny chunk from the top pancake and pushing it into his mouth with an air akin to trepidation.</p><p>“Good?” Tony prompts from his own bed (which he’s dutifully kept to despite the overwhelming urge to shuffle over to the kid and hold him forever) when there’s no answer for a good few seconds.</p><p>Peter’s previously blank face slowly crumples. Dropping his elbows sharply onto the tray, he buries his face in his hands, shoulders juddering.</p><p>Tony’s chest locks in place. He hears <em> it hurts </em> and <em> I don’t wanna </em> and <em> I miss my life </em>starting up a looping chorus in his mind. “Kid. Kid? What’s - are you okay? Does anything hurt?”</p><p>With a quiet sniff, the kid shakes his head, his forearms listing from side to side with the movements, then, to Tony’s surprise, emits a tremulous laugh.</p><p>“I never thought I’d have pancakes again,” he says simply.</p><p>The corners of his mouth war between up and down, up, down, as he dries his sudden onslaught of tears with a rough hand. “They’re really, yeah, they’re really good.”</p><p>“Yeah, I bet they are.” Tony finds himself smiling although he can’t quite tell why.</p><p>“Oh my God, <em> fruit </em>. Real fruit.” Another set of tears races down Peter’s cheeks before he can even process them; another swipe of his hand rids them from his face. “No more tinned pears. Woohoo.”</p><p>It’s a little lack-lustre, so Tony adds: “Whoop-de-fucking-doo.”</p><p>It’s meant entirely seriously, but Peter giggles at him all the same.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>He tells the kid to yell for him if he needs help with anything, even though he’s mostly bed-bound at the moment. It helps him to feel like he’s there for Peter.</p><p>There’s silence from the bathroom, however, until he picks out a short yelp of surprise.</p><p>
  <em> Whimpering, grunting, creaking-- </em>
</p><p>“Peter?” he calls, hackles raising in an instant, hauling his legs over the side of his bed. “You okay?”</p><p>“Sorry, I just--” the reply is cut off briefly by another shout, one full of elation. The kid’s voice pitches up to falsetto as he exclaims, “Oh my <em> God </em>, it’s so nice!”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Hot water!”</p><p>“Oh!” Tony feels his aching heart slow gradually back to its usual rhythm. “Right. Good for you.”</p><p>Peter’s next remark carries a note of joy, of the carefree delights of childhood, something he’s never once heard in the kid’s voice in four years of knowing him. “It’s - <em> oh, wow </em> - it’s so warm, you wouldn’t believe, it’s like standing in the rain in, in summer or something. I might fall asleep right here.”</p><p>“Not in the shower!”</p><p>“I know!” It’s punctuated by a sigh, a sigh that carries so much happiness that the kid doesn’t seem to know what to do with it.</p><p>Tony grins at the sound.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The second Doctor Anderson enters their room, Peter presses himself against Tony’s side and locks his gaze on the floor.</p><p>“It’s okay, just a doctor,” he soothes fruitlessly.</p><p>Doctor Anderson smiles, pauses a few feet in front of the pair. “I see we’re all awake?”</p><p>Tony nods tersely, the majority of his attention focused on the kid, who is squeezing his hand painfully.</p><p>“Hi, Peter,” begins Anderson, taking one step further towards them. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>Peter grips Tony’s hand harder still, not saying a word.</p><p>Tony intervenes politely but firmly. “Okay. Could you step outside again for just a moment, doc? I gotta chat with the kid for a second.”</p><p>The doctor leaves with a polite nod.</p><p>“What happened?” he asks the kid quietly.</p><p>Relaxing just a little as the door closes behind them, Peter absently touches the bruises on his neck, gaze still fixed downwards. “Does it have to be a man?”</p><p>
  <em> “God, it’s like it would kill you to stop complaining for half a second.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You grab me like that again, he gets it.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Adorable little boy.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Shhh.” </em>
</p><p>“No, kid. It doesn’t. We can ask for a woman, that’s fine. Think I’d prefer it too.”</p><p>The kid lets out a strained breath. “Thanks.”</p><p>“You don’t have to thank me.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Doctor Roberts has neat, dark hair, round glasses, and a delicate face that is far from Larry’s rough skin and leering grin. Peter even smiles a little as she enters.</p><p>She checks Tony’s dressings, assesses his pain, all with graceful movements that Tony doesn’t flinch at once. Then she turns to Peter, dressed in fresh scrubs that hang too large on his frame. Tony realises just how small the kid is, still is.</p><p>“Hiya, Peter.”</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>She briefs him on all the tests they’d like to carry out, doesn’t mince her words but doesn’t bring up Larry either.</p><p>“To begin with, would it be alright if I took some swabs of your neck?” She unearths a handful of test tubes, a single cotton bud inside each. “What I would do is just press them gently to the bruises for a couple of seconds each, then take them to be analysed. That way, we might be able to get some DNA from the marks, and that will serve as evidence of what’s happened.”</p><p>Peter deliberates, then nods.</p><p>“Okay, awesome.”</p><p>She’s pressing the third bud to a particularly nasty-looking mark just under his jaw, Tony’s hand still locked in Peter’s, when the door crashes open and they flinch in tandem.</p><p><em> Click </em>.</p><p>But it’s not a click, it’s a fervent <em> bang </em> as two people come rushing in, a familiar voice protesting “I’m sorry, I know he’s being checked over, but I can’t wait any longer--”</p><p>The honey-sweet voice he will never forget. The voice that belongs to Pepper.</p><p>She bursts into the room in track pants and a grey t-shirt, hair unwashed, face streaked with tears, perfect. Rhodey is hot on her heels, almost as bedraggled as her, face tense but still the face Tony grew up alongside.</p><p>It doesn’t feel like a dream in the slightest: it feels jarringly, overwhelmingly real, and Tony feels himself start to cry before they even reach him.</p><p>“Tony, oh my God, Tony, Tony,” Pepper says through an onslaught of tears, running to him as he sits in bed and enveloping him in a hug. She smells light and floral, her signature scent unchanged, and as she encircles him in her arms Tony feels every sensation of his past life come flooding back to him: the feel of her hands as he held them at the altar; the melodic sound of her laughter; the shuffling of papers as she sat up late and signed document after document, working overtime to impress her boss.</p><p>“Tones, you bastard,” comes a voice to his left. “Scared us half to death.”</p><p>Rhodey piles in on the hug, Rhodey who’d helped him stagger home from parties after he’d drunk so much he couldn’t remember where home was, who’d gone out with him to the same burger place they both adored a million times, who had a habit of laughing and clapping his shoulder and warming him to the core.</p><p>Tony is complete.</p><p>“Can’t believe you’re here,” he gasps through a thick throat. “Rhodey. Pep. Christ. I love you both so much, you know that?”</p><p>“Of course we do.”</p><p>“What happened in there?” Rhodey asks.</p><p>“Can we…? Let’s not talk about it just yet.”</p><p>“Oh. Oh. Yeah, of course.”</p><p>The mention of the Room brings Peter reflexively to his mind, and--</p><p>
  <em> Oh.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Peter. </em>
</p><p>When it had been just him and the kid, they’d been a pair, complete, an even addition. But now he has people and Peter doesn’t…</p><p>The equation gets a whole lot messier.</p><p>“Kid?” he calls.</p><p>Peter and Roberts have paused the examination; the kid sits on the edge of his bed, looking lost, gaze darting.</p><p>“Kid, meet Rhodey. Pepper. I told you all about them, remember?”</p><p>Pepper and Rhodey turn towards him with wide eyes, Pepper biting her lip subtly. The kid tenses at the eyes on him.</p><p>Tony must solve the equation, neaten it out, before anything breaks.</p><p>“Hey, c’mere,” he encourages, beckoning until Peter shuffles across his own bed to sit against Tony’s side again, and he loops an arm around his shoulders. Turning to Pepper and Rhodey, he tells them: “This is Peter. He was there with me, kept me sane most of the time, so you owe him that.” He attempts a laugh. “He’s…”</p><p><em> He’s mine </em>, he almost says.</p><p>Is that true? Does Peter even want it to be?</p><p>The kid answers for him, voice small but half-joking. “I don’t have any family, just Tony, and we were, you know, stuck together for a while - so that’s why I’m not - uh… I haven’t left you guys in peace, I guess.”</p><p>Just as Tony is about to refute his self-deprecating remark, Pepper cuts in softly, a little hesitantly: “Don’t feel like you have to leave, Peter. You’ve both been through a lot. I’m glad you were there for Tony.”</p><p>She’s noticed the bruises, Tony can tell by the well-hidden glint of alarm in her pupils. She understands.</p><p>Peter seems taken aback by her kindness. “I, um - thank you.”</p><p>When Tony catches Rhodey’s eye, he sees a crack in his demeanour that unsettles him, something that thinks <em> I don’t know you anymore. </em></p><p>Maybe Tony’s just paranoid.</p><p>He wouldn't be surprised.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>They suggest Peter undergoes a forensic medical examination if he feels up to it. He asks what that means.</p><p>“Well, we’d begin by taking some internal swabs to check for semen--”</p><p>Shaking his head viciously, he turns away, curls into Tony. It’s a gut response, although he wishes he hadn’t done it, wishes he’d stop running to Tony like a child at everything that upset him.</p><p>But he really… he doesn’t want to think about it.</p><p>“No,” Tony answers on his behalf. “Let’s skip that. Is there… anything else you could try instead?”</p><p>“Taking some blood and urine would be useful, too.”</p><p>“Think you can do that, kid?”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s fine. I’m - I’m sorry I keep acting like this--”</p><p>“It’s fine. You don’t have to be so hard on yourself, yeah? It takes time.”</p><p><em> What takes time? What? </em> Peter wants to ask. <em> And how long? </em></p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>By the 15th of August, Tony is starting to walk around without help, but it doesn’t stop the kid from hovering by his side every time he gets up as if he might keel over where he stands.</p><p>“Peter, I’m <em> fine </em>,” he insists when he rouses himself to head to the bathroom after Carol leaves, having given the kid a set of vaccinations to make up for the ones he missed while in the Room.</p><p>“I’m sorry, I just - got so used to looking after you. I always did the dishes, and cleaned, and helped you around…”</p><p>“Well, you don’t have to anymore. That’s good. You shouldn’t have to.”</p><p>“I liked doing it, though.”</p><p>“We can still help each other out, right? Except it doesn’t have to be… like that. I’m not gonna get hurt anymore.”</p><p>“Will I still get to see you?” Peter blurts, blindsiding Tony for a moment.</p><p>“What?” he replies eventually.</p><p>“When I… when I go back into, into care.”</p><p>“<em> Kid </em>.”</p><p>“What?” mimics Peter with a shell of humour, voice cracking slightly.</p><p>“That’s not… I was thinking you’d stay with me - with us. Me and Pep.”</p><p>“Stay with you?” The hope in Peter’s upturned face is so doubtful and yet so innocent that it clenches at Tony’s chest.</p><p>“Yeah. Of course.” He injects as much sincerity as he can into his words. “Four years doesn’t mean nothing just ‘cause we’re out now.”</p><p>“Oh. Oh, that’s really great. <em> Thank </em> you. I’m so - <em> huh </em>- I’m so glad.”</p><p>Tony finds himself being pulled into a shaky hug.</p><p>“Kid,” Tony frowns, “Did you really think I’d just let you go?”</p><p>“Sort of? I mean, I’m - I’m - I’m no good, really, am I?”</p><p>
  <em> “You’re no good for anything except this.” </em>
</p><p>“No, Peter. You’re <em> full </em> of good, okay? You’re the... good-est person I know. You really are.”</p><p>“Is Pepper okay with it too?”</p><p>Honestly, Tony hasn’t mentioned it to her, but he hopes she’s figured out the implications of the way he’d held the kid to his side, prays the sympathy in her eyes could turn into love for the boy Tony won’t be parted from.</p><p>“She’s getting on board.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The last glimpse Peter gets of Tony before the door shuts on the small room in which he’s being questioned is the man circling his bad wrist nervously with his free hand, gaze searching for him and never quite settling. </p><p>
  <em> Click.  </em>
</p><p>A rough estimate says the room measures about seventeen, eighteen feet square. Not enough. At least there’s a window, wide and clear, although it’s only cracked open, admitting a sliver of midday air. </p><p>“Come and sit, Peter,” begins the taller officer with a gentle smile. </p><p>He drops onto the hard chair with a <em> thunk </em>, clasps his hands together beneath the table. </p><p>“I am Officer Lopez, and this is my colleague, Officer Summers. If you’d prefer, you can call us Theresa--” she gestures to herself-- “And Joyce.” She nods towards the woman on her right. </p><p>Peter’s mind buzzes, hums with the anticipation of a nameless threat. A fly bounces against the glass of the window, again, again. <em> Out, out, out.  </em></p><p>“Peter? Did you catch that?” </p><p>“I--? I, uh…” </p><p>“No worries. Do you need me to repeat anything?” </p><p>“No, I heard. Sorry.” </p><p>An imaginary version of himself wrenches the door open, runs to Tony, Tony who he hasn’t been parted from for longer than a few minutes since the moment they reunited in hospital. </p><p>“Is there anything we can do to make the process less stressful for you? There are drinks, we can move closer to the window--” </p><p>“Yeah. Yes, please.” </p><p>They shuffle about with chairs and files until Peter is sat adjacent to the window, the officers in identical chairs around the central desk. One of the million knots in his chest drifts apart and eases. </p><p>“Um, could I also… open it?” </p><p>“Yes, of course.” </p><p>The outside air is hot, sweet, beautiful. Peter attempts to exhale away his nerves, leaning close to the opening below the now-tilted glass pane. </p><p>“So,” Officer Lopez begins levelly, “Before we begin I’m going to tell you a little about how giving your statement will work. Most importantly, we understand it can be very distressing to recount your experiences. We will make every effort to assure that the process is as painless as possible for us all, so if you need to take a break, don’t hesitate to ask. This statement is intended to gather information for us to have the defendant tried for all his crimes and prosecuted at the highest level. None of these questions are intended to provoke or upset you. Does that make sense?” </p><p>“Yeah.” </p><p>“You can choose not to answer the questions we ask, but I do suggest that you try to tell us as much as possible. You should know that offenders of the defendant’s nature - people who behave in the way he did - they will go back out and behave in just the same way if they aren’t convicted for what they’ve done, which is why it is so important that you speak out about what happened. Many people leave rape unreported, which is understandable due to its nature, but by helping us prosecute the defendant to the fullest extent, you could save lives."</p><p>They ask him question after question, questions on his and Tony’s daily routine, the food they ate, the TV they watched, the way light entered the Room through the skylight, and Peter begins to see it forming around him, chairs, table, the little sculpture in the centre, box TV, beds, <em> the bed he’s now trapped in, “Make a sound and I’ll kill Tony in front of you </em> ”, the bathtub, the floor, <em> blood seeping onto the floor, weight pressing him to the floor, cold floor beneath his back as he sits with the bloodsoaked Tony, his own hands scarlet, and watches Battlestar Galactica, “Gonna be just---”  </em></p><p>“When was the first night the defendant abused you?” </p><p>“June the 27th, 2017,” he rattles off tightly. </p><p>“Was this late at night?” </p><p>“Uh-huh.” </p><p>“Was Tony awake when the defendant entered?” </p><p>“No, just - just me. At first, anyway.” </p><p>“Can you describe what happened then? Did he say anything?” </p><p>The humming eclipses his rational mind; he almost shouts over the internal din. Dimly, he notices his gaze rooting itself to the rift of peeling paint curling upwards from the window frame, his hands plunging protectively between his thighs. </p><p>“He, he, he told me he’d kill Tony if I made a noise.” </p><p>“He’d kill Tony? Not hurt him, kill him?” </p><p>Peter nods, pushing away the mocking chorus of <em> kill Tony kill Tony </em> that threatens to overwhelm him. </p><p>“Okay. You’re doing very well. What was he doing while he said that?” </p><p>“He was, <em> huh </em> , he, he was on top of me. On the bed. And I, um - put his hand - <em> he </em> - he put his hand over my mouth. But then he put, he put it. He moved - he put it…”  </p><p>The words won’t come. He’s shaking. </p><p>“Sorry. Sorry.” Scraping a hand through his hair, fisting it there for a moment then tugging it through, he forces himself to stay composed. </p><p>“Hey, it’s totally fine. Would you like to take a break?” </p><p>“No, I really gotta - say it, I gotta.” Raising his voice, propelling the words from his vocal cords by sheer force, he continues: “He put, <em>he moved his hand down and pulled down my pants </em>and he pulled down his own pants and it started for the first time, I was, I knew what was happening but I didn’t, and then he - and then - <em>and then</em> <em>he also gave me bruises by kissing my neck and </em>he touched me, my, my, <em>my</em> <em>stomach and back and shoulders but nowhere else</em>, he, <em>huh</em>, he - he - <em>he was raping me</em> and that’s how it, it went.”</p><p>A natural disaster must be beginning in the room, cracks spidering through the floor, walls splitting apart, bursting from a pressure Peter feels viscerally inside his own head, breaking from the force of the declaration. He’s bursting, his lungs are bursting - or are they shrivelling? Unmoving, unable to take a breath, decaying? </p><p>He grips his sternum. He’s gasping for breath, having reeled off the memory with a single string of air that he’s now irrevocably tainted with the contents of his mouth and brain. </p><p>“I think we’re going to take a break now. You’re doing very well, Peter. How about a drink?”  </p><p>There’s a single tear quivering on his cheek, he realises, a stupid, solitary tear. </p><p>“Okay,” he wavers. </p><p>But he’s said it. He’s told someone. He’s said it. </p><p> </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>“The last thing we need to cover is the events of the 11th of August. Were you present when Tony received the injuries that put him in hospital that day?” </p><p>“That wasn’t… it didn’t happen on the 11th. It was the 10th, in the evening.” </p><p>“Alright. That’s very helpful. Did you see anyone giving Tony those injuries?” </p><p>“Larry - I mean, the, uh, the defendant. There wasn’t, I didn’t see anyone else. For four years.” </p><p>“What were you and Tony doing before he got injured?” </p><p>“Arguing. It was… I was angry. It was my birthday. We had this stupid cake and I, I guess I was sad too. But I got moody, I fought with Tony, and then he - the defendant - came in.” </p><p>“How did he seem as he entered?” </p><p>“Angry. Really angry. And, uh, drunk, I think. I smelt it. Later on.” </p><p>“And did he begin to hurt Tony immediately?” </p><p>“Mm-hm.” Peter’s throat is constricting again, squeezing inwards in tandem with the way the room is closing in on him. <em> Belt. Belt. Belt. Knife. </em> He clears his throat and grips the edges of his chair, watching himself from a distance as he edges towards a precipice he hasn’t a clue how to cross. “Tony was… he was shielding me. Larry just, just grabbed him, and I turned away - you know, the way Tony always told me to, he didn’t like me to see him getting hurt and I didn’t like him to see me. That’s how it was. But then… um.” </p><p>“What happened then?” </p><p>As hard as he tries, Peter can’t keep the pathetic tremor out of his voice. “He said I was an adorable little boy.” </p><p>The words are bitter in his mouth. </p><p>“The defendant?” </p><p>“Yeah. And Tony, he just - he suddenly got really mad. And he was like - uh, can I swear? If it’s just repeating things?” </p><p>“Yes, that’s fine.” </p><p>“Okay. He said, <em> don’t fucking touch him </em>. And hit him, but it was with his bad wrist, and then Larry got really mad. And I, it was all… I don’t know if - if I can say the rest.” </p><p> Finding himself pulling abruptly away from recollecting the memory, from bringing the horror of it into the world, he stops. Just stops. Mouth clamped shut and ears picking up nothing but their own wild ringing. </p><p>
  <em> “--er? Hel--?”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Knife knife knife knife knife knife  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It had made a wet, repulsive sound, almost like tearing sodden fabric, as it pierced Tony’s skin.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He’d just stood and watched.  </em>
</p><p>“Peter. Peter. Are you alright?” </p><p>Officer Summers is kneeling before him. </p><p>He’s breathing fast and heavy, he notices, and his knees are tucked up on the chair. </p><p>“Oh,” he breathes, blinking. The hum he offers next sounds closer to a whimper. “I’m… I’m not sure.” </p><p>“I’m not sure either,” she says quietly. “How about we have another break?” </p><p>“Not yet, I really - I really do wanna say it. I promise. I don’t want to take a break, I just want it to be over.” </p><p>“I think it’ll be a whole lot easier for you to say it if you take a breather for a second.” </p><p>He sits for a while, breathes, tamps down <em> knife knife knife </em>. </p><p>“After the defendant got angry at Tony, what happened?” Lopez prompts him when he’s ready. </p><p>“He hit Tony.” </p><p>“With his fists?” </p><p>“And his belt. And then, then he took out the knife from the kitchen. It was blunted, so we couldn’t hurt ourselves with it. But it just meant… he had to push it in really hard. Tony wasn’t moving. He, he just… lay there.” </p><p>“Were you doing anything other than watching?” </p><p>“I… I tried to get him to go to bed with me.” </p><p>It’s only then that he feels a deep well of tears begin to rise through his chest. It’s only a matter of time before he breaks. </p><p>“I didn’t want to, but I, but I, I thought it might make him st-stop. He - he stabbed - he stabbed Tony three times. I kept saying, uh, come to bed. But I really didn’t want him to, I promise.” </p><p>“We know you didn’t want to. It’s okay.” </p><p>“Then he--” a half-sob escapes from him; he curls into himself, trying to trap the terrifying feeling and force it back down towards his chest. “He threw Tony away, he, he ran up to me and told me not to tempt him, he threw me down right there, there, there on the floor, Tony was right next to me but he still hadn’t woken up, and the floor was hard, it hurt, and I was on my stomach and I was crying and he, he did it, he was so rough and I could - hear him and then he left me there on the floor - I got up and tried to help Tony but he wouldn’t - wake up, then Larry came back in and I made him take Tony to the hospital and he - didn’t do anything and then it was just me, alone, I - was stuck, thought I’d - die.” </p><p>He’s crying full-force now, shuddering, ugly sobs racking his body. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he tries anyway. </p><p>“There’s no need to be sorry.” A tissue is extended slowly to him. “That was incredibly brave of you, Peter. No-one should have had to go through all that, least of all a kid like you.” </p><p>“Okay. Thank - thank you, for, for… God, I can’t - say stuff--” </p><p>“We understand. You’re very welcome, Peter.” </p><p>“Can I see Tony, please?” </p><p>They escort him out instantly, to his relief, and as much as he tries to rein in his tears on the way out of the room, the sight of Tony waiting tensely a foot from the door, Tony alive and awake and standing and ready to defend him from threats that aren’t there anymore, fells him in an instant. </p><p>“Kid, what’s going on?” Tony asks him frantically when Peter falls into his arms. He finds himself being tugged around so he’s facing away from the officers. “Did something happen, did anyone hurt you?” </p><p>Pressing himself so tightly to Tony’s warmth that his muscles strain, he tries to jumble a few words together. “No, ‘s fi-fine. You’re okay. <em> Huh </em>.” </p><p>“Yeah, of course I’m okay. That wasn’t the question.” Tony returns the embrace with equal abandon, splaying a hand and burying it in his curls. The touch is undoubtedly his, and Peter melts into it even through the haze of appalling memories raging unbidden through his thoughts. </p><p>“Not hurt, promise, it, it was just - hard.” </p><p>“Yeah, I can imagine.” </p><p>“But, but good.” </p><p>“Good?” </p><p>“Uh-huh.” </p><p>“Gonna elaborate?” </p><p>“No.” </p><p>Tony chuckles a little, a welcome juxtaposition with his over-protectiveness just a moment ago. “Okay. Just take your time, kid. Keep breathing.” </p><p>“I’ll try.” </p><p> </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>He’s required to make his statement a second time to FBI investigators and braces himself for it to be just as excruciating as the last, but somehow it’s easier. He feels just a little lighter walking out of the room the second time. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Tony goes in for his statements after Peter. When he returns, he won’t speak a single word about what went on; he just pulls Peter up from his seat outside the room and locks him in another hug, swaying back and forth.</p><p>Peter feels his heartbeat slowly assume a regular pace against his own chest.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>At 7:46 pm that evening, they sit, Peter pressed against Tony’s side and resting his head on his shoulder, and watch their own story on the news.</p><p>
  <em> “45-year-old Tony Stark was the first to leave the captivity of the garden shed, taken to hospital in the early hours of the morning by the very man who is suspected to have imprisoned him for 5 years, Larry Miller.” </em>
</p><p>A photo of the man crossfades onto the TV screen, and in a purely instinctual move, Tony raises a hand and turns the kid’s head into his chest, away from the image. Peter just nestles further into Tony. He’s worn out all the time lately with the onslaught of sights and sounds and sensations and police questionings and nurses and new people. Tony understands.</p><p>
  <em> “Late that night, it was discovered that Stark was not the only prisoner: a sixteen-year-old boy, Peter Parker--” </em>
</p><p>Peter’s head twitches back up at that; he studies the screen with a demeanour warring between trepidation and fascination. Tony smooths a hand through his hair.</p><p>
  <em> “--was found still trapped in the room after a report from the older man, who notified the authorities of his continued captivity in the twelve-by-twelve foot room. He had awoken after receiving emergency medical treatment for multiple stab wounds. Upon leaving the shed, the teen appeared dishevelled and frightened.” </em>
</p><p>The video feed then cuts to give way to footage of the kid, shaky and dim but footage nonetheless. Tony’s blood halts in its tracks.</p><p>Only just recogniseable is Anna, the officer that had brought Peter to him, with a hand placed gently between his shoulder blades as she guides him towards a police car. It’s Peter that Tony can’t look away from, however: he’s in the stained, ill-fitting clothes that Tony so painfully recognizes, covered in sweat, eyes wild and chest heaving; the broad jerks of movement that propel him forwards are offset by much finer tremors in his hands as he cups them over his face, clumsily blocking out the blaring red lights of the siren atop the vehicle.</p><p>“Oh, no,” Peter whispers, “Why did they film me?”</p><p>As Anna opens the door for him, the Peter on the news feed jolts out of her hold for a moment, hugging his arms to himself. Tony can imagine the <em> click </em>, the terror of climbing into another enclosed space minutes after leaving the Room.</p><p>“I’m sorry, kid,” he murmurs in response to the Peter he holds now. He’s sorry for a lot of things.</p><p>
  <em> “The victims have chosen not to disclose the nature of their time in captivity, and we don’t blame them.” </em>
</p><p>Reaching across Tony to grab the remote, Peter turns off the screen abruptly.</p><p>“I wanna, uh…” the kid doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself all of a sudden. “I, I’m tired, I’m ready to sleep.”</p><p>“Okay,” is all Tony can muster.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>On the 21st of August, Tony’s wounds are healed enough that Doctor Roberts is able to pronounce them both fit to be discharged.</p><p>“Before you leave, I brought you some goodies.” She unearths a bundle of items from the deep pocket of her doctor’s coat and begins by handing them each a leather case. “Sunglasses, for adjusting to the light levels outdoors. They’ll help you to feel more comfortable. The suncream serves a similar purpose. Put on a layer the first few times you go outside, while your skin is adjusting. I also have a nice big tub of multivitamins for you both. They’re just to boost your levels, so take them in addition to a balanced diet.”</p><p>Tony attempts to focus on every piece of advice she’s rattling off but the prospect of leaving, returning to life, is so mind-blowing that it’s a difficult task.</p><p>“For you, Mr. Stark--” a squat orange pot is placed into his hands-- “Some painkillers. You can renew your subscription within the dates on the bottle if you continue to experience pain flareups.</p><p>“And Peter, I’d like you to take one of these a day. No need to renew them.”</p><p>Rotating the medicine bottle in his hands, Peter squints at the lengthy medication name. “What’re they for?”</p><p>“They’re an anti-microbial course of pills to prevent STIs.”</p><p>Peter freezes.</p><p>Tony rushes to protest: “But you said he didn’t have any--”<br/>“It’s just to make sure that there’s no chance of any new infections developing over the next few weeks. It’s very unlikely, but the medication is an important preventative measure.”</p><p>Head bowed stiffly, Peter nods.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Peter. Know that the prescription is to keep you healthy rather than make you feel ashamed or embarrassed.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Tony is instantly overwhelmed by the compulsion to smooth things over, smooth the frown from the kid’s face that simultaneously ages him by twenty years and bares his innocence. Clinking his pot against Peter’s, he quips, “Hey, we’re matching. You’d better remind me to take mine.”</p><p>“Deal,” Peter mutters with a ghost of a smile.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The drive home only takes fifteen minutes.</p><p>If they’d driven from the Room, it would have taken seven minutes. That’s all.</p><p>No wonder the police had located that fucking shed so easily: it was barely a few blocks from the hospital.</p><p>Tony wishes the journey had been long enough to allow himself to acclimatize just a little to the world. He hasn’t really seen it, not in full consciousness, not outside the grounds of the hospital, and it still bowls him over.</p><p>Peter had clung to Tony’s arm as they approached the car, but Tony suspected the kid had been guiding him rather than vice versa. “A cool breeze,” he’d whispered in Tony’s direction, a sentimental smile tugging at his lips. They both remember the 18th of June 2017. They remember every moment.</p><p>Everything gets a little less wistful and a lot more scary when they round the block which Tony remembers will take them to the house he used to - he lives in.</p><p>There’s a crowd straining behind a metal barrier lining the front garden, maybe a hundred people, waving placards full of exclamation marks and bouquets of flowers and huge wrapped parcels and stuffed toys, shouting and cheering and waving, a writhing mass of noise. Reporters with cameramen and microphone holders rush forwards, surrounding the car, gesticulating, talking about him, talking about the kid. Tony’s heart picks up the pace unbidden. </p><p>He sees Pepper’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, but she doesn’t hesitate to pull into the driveway, Rhodey unbuckling his seatbelt beside her.</p><p>A quick glance at the kid beside him in the backseat shows him clamping his hands over his ears in the way Tony hates so much, eyes screwed shut, frozen in place. Tony grips his arm. </p><p>“We’re walking out in this?”<br/>Pepper’s response is barely distinguishable above the muffled din: “Yeah, we’re getting out here.”</p><p>And then Pepper opens the door and the chaos triples. Camera flashes, a hundred threads of shouted conversations, cries of “Tony! Peter! We love you!” and yelling, yelling he knows is supposed to be congratulatory but can’t separate from <em> can’t believe you fucking hit me </em>.</p><p>“Come on,” Rhodey cuts in with a  raised voice, opening Tony’s door and beckoning him out hurriedly, “it’ll be okay, just take the kid and let’s go.”</p><p>Circling Peter’s back with an arm, he pulls him out of the car, into the blinding daylight which even their matching sunglasses can’t fully mitigate.</p><p>The moment they begin to move, they’re followed.</p><p>“Here we are with Tony and Peter entering their home for the first time,” booms a news reporter, jogging towards him and the kid, and a <em> click </em> resounds in his brain, not unlike the <em> click </em> of the door opening, admitting suffering to come, connoting instant danger.</p><p>
  <em> DANGER </em>
</p><p>He’d shove away the clump of reporters encroaching on him and Peter, but he figures their best shot is just to run to safety, get the kid out of danger rather than leave him unprotected.</p><p>So he maneuvers the hunched-over kid so he’s directly in front of him, both Tony’s arms shielding him and keeping him tight to his chest, and breaks into a run, urging Peter along with him. The kid starts, stumbles at the sudden pace, but Tony drags him along.</p><p>The door approaches. Pepper has already unlocked it; just as she’s stepped inside, he barrels inside with the kid, almost hitting the wall to the side.</p><p>Rhodey follows a moment after and shuts the door, quieting the clamour.</p><p>Tony’s train of thought is narrowed in on the kid, the kid, and he puts a hand on the side of Peter’s face. “Kid? Peter? You okay?”</p><p>Something’s wrong. He can’t focus on Peter’s face; on anything.</p><p>“Tony?” the kid says.</p><p>“Did they get you?”</p><p>“No, I’m - hey, you can let go of me now, okay?”</p><p>The world sharpens all of a sudden, throwing everything into overly harsh clarity. He’s still gripping the kid, too tightly, and Peter’s gently trying to ease out of his grip. Pepper and Rhodey gaze at him with the same wide-eyed hesitance of their first reunion in hospital.</p><p>He doesn’t know what to do about any of it.</p><p>“Are you okay?” he asks again.</p><p>“He’s fine, Tony,” Pepper cuts in, laying a soothing hand on his shoulder and tugging him gently away from the kid. “Relax.” It’s hard not to fight a touch that separates him from Peter, but he overrules his primal brain, allowing himself to deflate.</p><p>“Yeah, I’m okay,” Peter offers, subdued.</p><p>“You’re okay,” breathes Tony one last time.</p><p>Maybe he's just paranoid.</p><p>He wouldn't be surprised.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you again for all the love for this fic, you guys are the best!! I pray that you will be protected and peaceful and know that the world will go on.<br/>Daisy &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Welcome back, everybody!! This chapter is a little late but I hope you can forgive me seeing as it's a whopper of almost 14k words!</p><p>Trigger warning for Chapter 4 (this warning includes spoilers):</p><p>Detailed description of flashbacks/breakdowns, PTSD, anxiety, low self-esteem; details of recovery from trauma; allusions to a wet dream and rape of a child; swearing;</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em> 8:02 pm </em>
</p><p>“God, I haven’t had steak in too long. Pep, this is great. Right, kid?”</p><p>Peter nods. At least, Tony thinks he does. He’s barely raised his head during the entirety of dinner. They’d spent the afternoon settling in: logging the essentials they’ll need to admit Tony and Peter and, temporarily, Rhodey, into the house only Pepper has inhabited for the last five years; drawing the curtains to shut out the crowd until it disperses at last a few hours later; sending Rhodey out to the store to grab a few essentials; and assigning rooms - Peter had insisted on his own room, and, with reluctance but an acknowledgement that it had to be that way now, Tony had helped set him up in the bedroom beside his and Pepper’s. It had been a day full of new things, things Tony hasn’t had to think about in years, things like changing the bedclothes and buying toothpaste.</p><p>He’s not surprised that the kid is so quiet tonight after the onslaught of activity, but there’s a layer of tension hovering over him still that Tony can’t quite figure out.</p><p>“So,” Pepper tries after politely finishing her mouthful, “Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself, Peter?”</p><p>Tony shoots her a cautionary glance, trying to communicate something along the lines of <em> don’t mention his family </em>, but she goes on to ask, “What do you spend your free time doing?”</p><p>The kid lifts his eyeline just slightly in the gentle lighting that rings the dinner table but doesn’t meet Pepper’s gaze entirely. After an agonizing pause, he mumbles, “I draw sometimes.”</p><p>“Understatement of the century,” Tony can’t help but interject. “Kid’s an artist. He makes these beautiful sketches, just from his brain.”</p><p>Peter just fiddles with his glass and shrugs.</p><p>Tony can sense Rhodey’s gaze on him from across the wide table, but he ignores it in favour of trying to draw out a better response from the kid.</p><p>“We did a lot of fiddling around with the TV too, didn’t we?” he presses on, brushing a hand over Peter’s briefly in a bid to draw some kind of acknowledgement from him. “And tons of cooking. He’s gonna be very popular at college.”</p><p>
  <em> College? </em>
</p><p>Will the kid want to go to college? Will he be able to? What about school? Making friends?</p><p>Tony’s just opened a can of worms he wishes he could re-seal. Peter certainly doesn’t look any happier for it.</p><p>Then Tony’s meandering train of thought latches on to the vitamin tub in the centre of the table and he finds his ticket out of the silence.</p><p>“Oh, I forgot. We gotta take our meds, Peter.”</p><p>Whether the kid nods or just stiffens slightly is debatable.</p><p>“They’re in the hallway still,” Rhodey comments. “I’ll grab ‘em.”</p><p>He leaves his half-eaten steak and walks out. <em> Footsteps. </em></p><p>Pepper valiantly stokes the embers of the conversation. “Is there anything you two want to do tomorrow? Anywhere you might like to go? Now, you know, you’re free as birds.”</p><p>This Tony has thought about. “You know what I’d love? If Rhodey and I could go down to that burger place again. Nelson's.”</p><p>“The one in Cambridge?” </p><p>She arches a brow at him, but it’s in that sharp, skeptical way Tony remembers precisely, the way she always looks when she doubts his choices but knows she won’t be able to stand in his way.</p><p>“Yeah, it’s an independent. Nothing like it. We could make it a trip. Why don’t we all come?”</p><p>“Tony, some of us have work,” she points out with a shrewd smile.</p><p>Rhodey re-enters then with a new solemnity, the frown lines on his forehead lowered, and the small pocket of friendliness the group had built evaporates in an instant.</p><p>He hands Tony his medicine bottle without batting an eyelid but sneaks a glance at the kid’s before handing it to him with something akin to reluctance. Peter leans away from his hand so subtly that Tony thinks only he might have spotted it, and yet it throws a shadow of unease over the scene, revealing a rift between the kid and Tony’s family larger than he’d anticipated.</p><p>All he wants is for everything to just <em> work out </em> . He went through five years of <em> wrong </em> ; why can’t he have <em> right </em> now?</p><p>Peter doesn’t say a word for the rest of the dinner. Rhodey’s gaze keeps straying to him, a haunted look half-hidden there, and Tony can tell the kid feels eyes on him by the way he shrinks gradually into himself.</p><p>“I’m full, thanks, I… can I go up to my room?” he asks abruptly, pushing back his seat with a scrape.</p><p>“Yeah, of course.” Tony wishes he’d stay, wishes he could show Pepper and Rhodey that the kid is more than the events of the Room, but he’s helpless.</p><p>Silence descends, punctuated only by Peter’s unpracticed climbing of the stairs.</p><p>Rhodey’s eyes flicker upwards; he studies the ceiling until the faint <em> thud </em> of a closing door is heard, and then he looks to Tony.</p><p>“He’s taking STI meds?” he mutters in that flat, almost disappointed tone that hits Tony square in the chest. </p><p>Usually, that voice would get him to back down instantly. Today, however, it riles him up further.</p><p>Setting his hands firmly on the table, Tony fires back, “He didn’t have a choice. Would you rather him take the meds or have an infection?”</p><p>“Tones, this kid - he’s…”</p><p>He burns with protective anger. “Don’t finish that sentence.”</p><p>Interjecting with a pinched undertone to her words, Pepper says, “He has a point, Tony. He’s going to be living with us?”</p><p>“Yes. He has to.”</p><p>Tony’s vaguely aware that he’s being neurotic, but he’s telling the truth too.</p><p>God, he just wishes things could be <em> normal </em>. Simple. That he could have lived his life without anything happening.</p><p>“Does he? You didn’t--” Pepper sighs, spreading her hands as she continues with the overly gentle voice of someone approaching a wounded animal. “We didn’t <em> talk </em>about this. You need to tell us what’s going on.”</p><p>As a second thought, she grabs his hand from across the table, runs her smooth thumb across the withered ridges of his knuckles. Soft gestures, but hard words.</p><p>“The kid barely said a word,” Rhodey protests. “Does he even <em> want </em> to live here? Did you talk to <em> him </em>?”</p><p>“Of course I talked to him. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go. He’s a good kid, okay? Amazing.” <em> “Such an… amazing kid.” </em> “He just - he needs to settle back in.”</p><p>Tony finds he’s taken on a demeanour akin to desperation.</p><p>“How long will that take? Considering… what was done?”</p><p>“Rhodey, you might think you know what happened in there, but you could never <em>understand</em>.” </p><p>
  <em> “I’ve gotta hear him hitting you--” </em>
</p><p><em> “And I have to hear him </em> raping <em> you!” </em></p><p>“You weren’t there,” he bites, “Don’t act like it.”</p><p>“Hey, that’s not what I meant.” Rhodey sits back in his chair, eyes narrowing.</p><p>“What <em> did </em> you mean, huh? What did you mean?”</p><p>Cutting through them both, Pepper gestures to the room, the table. “He means that <em> this </em> won’t work. I’m not sitting through another dinner like that.”</p><p>
  <em> They don’t understand. </em>
</p><p>Tony snaps.</p><p>“Peter didn’t interact with anyone other than me and Larry for <em> four years </em> . Can you - think about that? That was while he was still growing up. Still developing. This shit is <em> hard </em>for him. So if that means we have a hundred more awkward silences while he learns to trust you, you’re gonna have to put up with it.”</p><p>The thick, dreadful silence of moments before settles over the three once again like a stifling blanket on a hot day. Tony breathes. Pepper looks away, purses her lips. Rhodey just shakes his head.</p><p>“I think he just hates me. He won’t even look me in the eye.”</p><p>Tony can’t help but speak harshly. “Use your brain. Men remind him of Larry.”</p><p>It’s only then that something appears to click in Rhodey’s mind, something that compels him to rest a hand over his face. “Poor fucking kid,” he murmurs.</p><p>“I’m gonna go and check on him.”</p><p>Rhodey and Pepper don’t argue.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The kid hasn’t turned on a single light.</p><p>Tony can just make out that he’s sitting in a tangle of limbs on the floor, the way he always used to sit on his bed in the morning with a greasy bedhead and drooping eyelids; his chin is hooked over the low windowsill and his face rests against the window’s polished glass. The sky is darkening, shutting up for the night and fading to a deep navy.</p><p>“Kid--”</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>As Tony enters, he turns to face him, leaving his post at the window to lean against the wall. He’s an open book: fidgeting hands, downcast gaze and a locked jaw - except Tony swears that a little of the tension drains from him as he steps into the room.</p><p>“It was just really… it, it was hard to…” Breaking off with a huff of frustration, the kid dips his head forward then back again in a useless movement. </p><p>Tony eases himself down to sit beside him, fighting back the urge to just bundle him up in a hug. In the Room, it felt like the only way to comfort the kid, but now they’re back in the world it’s becoming more and more apparent that it can’t be that way anymore.</p><p>The Room had frozen them both in time. Now, reality races by too quickly to comprehend, and the kid’s having to learn to be sixteen without an ounce of preparation.</p><p>“I know,” Tony tells him simply. “It’s really hard. It’s okay that it’s hard.”</p><p>“You guys know each other,” Peter adds, quiet and solemn. “You’re family.”</p><p>“<em> We’re </em> family.”</p><p>“Not like that.”</p><p>Tony sighs. </p><p>“I don’t think Pepper and Rhodey want me here,” blurts the kid.</p><p>“Hey, you can’t just give up on them, alright? They just need to get to know you. I know they’ll like you, I know it.”</p><p>And at that, the childlike sheen of overruling trust floods Peter’s gaze, the sheen that scared him so often in the Room, that made it known that the kid hinges his hopes and dreams and safety on Tony. “You know for sure?”</p><p>“I do. Why don’t we go back down there and have some dessert?”</p><p>“No, not - just, tomorrow or something--”</p><p>“No time like the present.”</p><p>Tony leaves the statement open, lets the kid have the final call. He deserves to choose.</p><p>Eventually, Peter stands, shaking out his hands. “Okay.”</p><p>“I’ll help you out. Just, you know, don’t think about it too much.”</p><p>“Well, now I’m thinking about it.”</p><p>They give way to laughter for a moment.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Tony guides him back downstairs, both slow on the steps they’ve grown unused to climbing, and Pepper smiles at their arrival. Finally, Peter starts to speak, makes short but witty comments on the remarks of others and smiles shyly at the laughter he receives. Rhodey still won’t quite look him in the eye, but they’re talking, and for now, that’s enough.</p><p>The stifling blanket over the new, mismatched family begins to lift.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Their living room is piled with gifts from strangers.</p><p>“What the hell do we do with it all?” Rhodey thinks aloud.</p><p>“Donate them. Get rid of them somehow. I don’t know.”</p><p>The presents carry an air to them that Tony doesn’t like, something sour and tacky. They’re gone by the weekend.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>It’s 2:56 am and sleep is evading Tony like he’ll kill it if he gets his hands on it.</p><p>He cracks open his eyes, which had been sealed shut for a valiant forty minutes in an attempt to bore himself to sleep, and surveys his room. He remembers it, of course, but it feels different - almost like another Tony had lived there while he was gone and taken ownership of it. Neutral walls, slender lamps on bedside tables, heavy curtains to block out the sunrise which will begin all too soon. </p><p>Pepper breathes evenly beside him. It’s strange, having someone else so close as you sleep.</p><p>Tony can’t stop startling awake, imagining he’s heard the <em> click </em> of the door opening or Larry’s low, dangerous words to the kid. In fact, it’s just as unnerving that the kid isn’t with him. It reminds him of the still-fresh horror of waking in hospital after the final beating without Peter at his side. He’s so used to the kid’s light snores, the shuffling in the other corner of the Room as he moved around in his sleep. Now, all is too silent, <em> too safe </em>, and he can’t understand why, but it unnerves him.</p><p>Kicking the silken covers away, he hauls himself out of bed, wandering to the bathroom, but before he can reach it he passes the bedroom door.</p><p>A tiny voice whispers <em> he’s not safe. </em></p><p>He tries to ignore it, standing in place in indecision.</p><p><em> Grunting creaking whimpering </em> taunts the voice; Tony breaks.</p><p>He’s only a few steps through the hallway when he hears something that compels him to turn immediately for the main bathroom.</p><p>A bitten-back whimper.</p><p>
  <em> DANGER </em>
</p><p>Rushing for the door, Tony wrenches it open, thanking the stars whoever has Peter in there didn’t think to lock the--</p><p>He almost misses the kid entirely.</p><p>He’s silent, motionless. Crushed under the basin of the sink, his back against the side of the bathtub. His arms are splayed over his chest, hands crossed and curled around his shoulders.</p><p>“Peter, what’s happening? What’s going on?”</p><p>The kid doesn’t respond to him. Instead, he lets out a horrible, shuddering sob, his whole body trembling.</p><p>Tony’s heart thunders frantically in his chest. There’s something primal, animalistic, to Peter’s behaviour, something that scares him.</p><p>“Peter?” he tries again.</p><p>What he gets in turn will stay with him for the rest of his life.</p><p>“Don’t, Larry.”</p><p>Falling to his knees, Tony tries again through a wavering throat. “Kid, it’s me. Not - <em> God </em> - not him. Just - c’mon, look at me. It’s Tony.”</p><p>An agonised moan tears from Peter’s mouth. He still won’t lift his head from where it’s jammed between his knees, won’t open his eyes.</p><p>In a desperate bid to <em> fix it, </em>Tony reaches out for the kid’s hand where it’s clenched around his shoulder, but the kid only scrambles away, bashing against the bathtub.</p><p>“I’m sorry, kid, I didn’t - just - please, calm down,” Tony entreats him uselessly. This is something he’s dreaded for years as he lay awake in the Room and listened to <em> grunting creaking whimpering </em>; and yet it’s something a small and painful part of him knew they would both inevitably have to suffer through.</p><p>He just wishes it wasn’t <em> now </em>, when they’d been about to fall in love with the world all over again.</p><p>The kid chokes on an inhale just then; his eyes fly open, bright with alarm.</p><p>“Peter,” Tony calls again, but the kid is preoccupied with his stoppered breath, combing rigid hands over and over again through his hair in a heart-rending display of self-comfort. It seems to last forever, the kid cringing and convulsing and opening and closing his mouth to no avail, Tony calling his name over and over.</p><p>“Peter, buddy. Please listen to me. It’s Tony. You hear me? It’s just Tony.”</p><p>With a jolt, Peter’s lungs kickstart back to life; he pants out wild breaths, slumping back against the bathtub.</p><p>Only then does he notice Tony.</p><p>He can tell the kid has seen him by the recognition shining through the delirious gaze he finds fixed upon him. Peter doesn’t say a word. Instead, his face slowly and painfully crumples and he starts to shake with juddering sobs.</p><p>It kills Tony.</p><p>“Come on, kid,” he urges, forcing the cracks out of his voice, forcing himself to be strong. “Come to me. Can you scooch out from under there?”</p><p>The kid whips his head around and seems to notice for the first time where he is. With the exhausted movements of a man much older than himself, he slides out from under the basin, remaining curled fearfully into himself.</p><p>“Tony,” he breathes.</p><p>Then the kid lunges for him, clinging to him with the vehemence of a drowning man. “<em> Tony </em>.”</p><p>Peter weeps and weeps and weeps and it’s all Tony can do to sit on the hard floor with him and hold him. The kid has grown since they left the Room, beginning to shoot upwards towards the height he should have been all along, and it makes it all the more torturous for Tony to rock him back and forth to comfort him as if he’s a toddler rather than a sixteen-year-old.</p><p>When the kid cries “I didn’t want him to do it,” Tony wishes he didn’t know exactly what he was referring to.</p><p>“He’s not gonna do it anymore. You’re safe, kid, I promise.” Tony kisses his tear-stained temple, rubs soothing circles into his back - anything to end the torture.</p><p>“I felt like I was gonna die. Every time.”</p><p>“You’re okay,” is all Tony can respond with.</p><p>“I’m <em> not </em>.” He buries his head in Tony’s chest and keens, a noise of such despair that Tony wonders how the whole neighbourhood isn’t awakened by it, then mutters, “I just want it to stop.”</p><p>“It has stopped. It’s over.”</p><p>“No - in my head. It’s always just, just playing, again and again. I wanna pause it but it won’t stop. Please, Tony, make it stop.”</p><p>It’s the plea of a small child, a plea that shouldn’t be ignored.</p><p>But what the hell can Tony do?</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 31st August 2020 </em>
</p><p>“Hi, Peter.”</p><p>“Hi.”</p><p>“I’m Amy. We spoke on the phone a couple of days ago, didn’t we? When Mr. Stark arranged these therapy appointments?”</p><p>“Yeah. I was… sorry about, uh - on the call, I was sort of… you know. All over the place.”</p><p>“I didn’t think that at all. Well, this is our first real meeting anyway, right?”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>“Before you get too nervous about what’s to come, I think I should clarify that we won’t be discussing anything too heavy today unless you’re particularly eager to do so. I like to begin a course of CBT by just getting to know my client so we can feel a little more comfortable around each other. Does that sound alright?</p><p>“Oh. Okay - great - yeah. That sounds really good. Thank you.”</p><p>“No need to thank me. It’s just the way I like to work. Now, the first thing I want to know is something that I like to ask everyone I’m getting to know. I think it reveals a lot about people. What do you love most in the world?”</p><p>“Tony, I guess.”</p><p>“Oh - that’s really nice, but I don’t think I was being clear enough. I mean, what is the thing you most love to do?”</p><p>“Oh, right. I didn’t - sorry, that was weird.”</p><p>“Not at all. So - what is it?”</p><p>“Uh…it’s a hard question.”</p><p>“Yeah. You can take as long as you need.”</p><p>“Well, I... I haven’t really - done anything - since, you know, way back. I mean, I sort of… can I say two things?”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>“I remember I really used to love going to the beach and watching the sea. Sketching it, maybe. Listening to the waves. And… I love just, just watching TV with Tony.”</p><p>“That’s awesome. The sea always seems so powerful but so peaceful to me.”</p><p>“Yeah. It never stops. Nothing gets in its way, it’s just… free.”</p><p>“And it’s great that you treasure quality time with Tony.”</p><p>“It’s… I’m allowed to have that as a thing I love, right? Even though it’s with a, um, with a person?”</p><p>“Yes, that’s fine. This isn’t a test, just a way to get to know you.”</p><p>“Okay. Well, uh - what do you love?”</p><p>“Me? I love… I love to ride my horse.”</p><p>“You have a horse?”</p><p>“I do. Her name is Moonlight. I’ve had her since I was a teenager and I take her on rides as often as I can. Sometimes we go to the beach too.”</p><p>“That’s so cool.”</p><p>“Yeah. Have you ridden a horse?”</p><p>“No. It’d, it’d be great, though.”</p><p>“Maybe you should think about it.”</p><p>“I want to go and do everything. I wanna see everything I missed.”</p><p>“That’s a very good idea. I’m glad to hear that you still have a lot of love for the world.”</p><p>“Even more than, uh, than before, I think. Me and Tony are gonna make a list so we get round to everything.”</p><p>“Great plan. What sort of things are on the list?”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“How'd it go?” Tony asks Peter that afternoon as they get their first taste of ice cream, the first fixture on their list. <em> Peter and Tony Do Stuff </em> , it’s been dubbed. Tony advocated strongly for <em> Tony and Peter Do Stuff </em>, but it was Peter’s idea so Peter gets to name it. That’s what he said, anyway.</p><p>He’s learning to have opinions on things and voice them. Out here, there’s no punishment for making his voice heard. It thrills him.</p><p>“<em> Way </em> less stressful than I thought.”</p><p>“What were you expecting?” Tony questions him incredulously from around his chocolate cone. Peter should have known he’d be a chocolate guy. He gets to know now, though, and that’s alright.</p><p>His own ice cream is honeycomb, crunchy and brain-freeze-inducing and heavenly. “To have to talk about it, I guess,” he says, voice coagulated with the creamy substance. “She told me about her horse, and we talked about the beach. And that was… basically it. It was good.”</p><p>“Sounds questionable. I'm not paying for her to chat about her horse to you.”</p><p>“No, it’s, like, a technique she uses. To help people feel comfortable instead of making them talk. I’m sure we’ll get around to it.”</p><p>“I hope so. It needs to…” Tony devours the sticky end of his cone, pausing to chew, then spreads his hands. “I really want it to work out.” </p><p>Were he not wearing the thick sunglasses the hospital had given them, Peter gets the feeling he’d see something disconcerting in Tony’s eyes.</p><p>“It will. She’s, she’s really great, and I’m gonna try really hard to… I don't know, <em> emote. </em>”</p><p>Tony snorts ungraciously.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You have no idea what therapy actually entails, do you?”</p><p>Peter’s voice raises to a defensive squeak in that endearing way of his. Tony can picture the spidering laugh lines around his eyes under his sunglasses.“When would I have been to therapy?” </p><p>“I thought you went after you called your teacher <em> mom </em>in fifth grade? When you wouldn’t go to school the next day because you were so traumatized?”</p><p>“No, I said I <em> needed </em> therapy, not that I got it,” Peter elaborates with a lazy grin. “Ben and May’s insurance wasn’t gonna cover therapy, no way.”</p><p>“Peter Parker! Tony Stark!” they hear from the other end of the park.</p><p>Instantly, Tony tenses. Turning towards the source of the noise, he spots a family, two over-enthusiastic moms advancing noisily on them with a stroller and a giggling toddler. Tony doesn’t know whether to be flattered, angry or scared, so his brain decides helpfully on all three at once.</p><p>He looks to the kid for an indication of how he should react. Although Peter looks nervous, there’s an inquisitive note to the way he’s peering at the approaching group that dissuades any instant outburst from Tony. Instead, he lets the family approach despite the screaming pit of panic rooted in his chest that rebels against his exterior show of calm.</p><p>It transpires that Peter is great with fans. He latches on to Tony’s arm at the first smile from the parents and seems to draw a baffling amount of strength from the contact, smiling back and responding graciously to the well-intended probing of the moms. Where Tony is short, curt, he’s friendly and humble. He even crouches down obligingly at the tugging on his pants leg from the toddler, who admittedly is pretty adorable, and scrawls an uncertain signature in the kid’s tiny notebook.</p><p>“Everyone is so happy you’re on the mend,” the moms agree, excusing themselves with an effusion of nods and smiles.</p><p>The moment they’re out of sight, the kid flops back against Tony’s shoulder with a tired exhale.</p><p>“Alright?” Tony murmurs.</p><p>“Why do I feel like I just ran a marathon?” is the response. It’s tinged with an amusement that relaxes a little of the tension in Tony’s heart.</p><p>He sets his chin habitually atop the kid’s curls, securing him in place, but resists the urge to bundle him up bodily in his arms. “You’re not used to talking to a bunch of people, remember? You did great. Surprised the heck out of me. In a good way, I mean.”</p><p>“I just talked to them for a while.”</p><p>“Yeah, well our standards are different to everybody else’s. You were a natural, I’m telling you. Like a movie star. A <em> superstar </em>.”</p><p>Peter smiles with surprising sincerity. Then he takes a second look back at Tony, his quirky left eyebrow shooting skywards. “You wanna baby me so bad right now, don’t you?”</p><p>“Yes, I do. My most ardent wish in the world is to smoosh your awesome little face, but I know you’re a big boy now and you don’t like me to do it in public.”</p><p>Peter laughs, the vibrations rippling through them both like physical manifestations of their tenderness. “You’re doing good too, then,” he jests, “For holding back.”</p><p>For another blissful moment they rest there, Peter’s back against Tony’s chest, exhaling in tandem.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>On the 4th of September, they’re on a walk, revisiting the local area, when they come across an empty field, the grass uncut and fragrant and stretching for hundreds of feet in every direction.</p><p>Peter pulls Tony into a run without a thought.</p><p>It’s so much more vivid, more wonderful, than what Tony had remembered. It’s rusty brown dirt kicking up beneath their feet, the verdant green of the boundless grass peppered with proud yellow dandelions, the scudding of lithe clouds across a burnished evening sky. It’s every molecule of moisture in the air settling in his lungs, flooding his mouth with the sweetness of ambrosia. It’s the kid’s fragmented, elated face, <em> dubious but elate </em>, eyes gleaming brighter than gems, fingertips spread to allow minute currents of wind to slip between them.</p><p>For a moment, Tony forgets that they can’t fly, that they aren’t simply invincible. </p><p>They tick <em> running </em> off of <em> Peter and Tony Do Things </em>.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“Tony,” Pepper says, “The media is all over us. My work phone won’t quit ringing, my inbox is filled to bursting, and they’re spinning stories on why you’ve kept silent.”</p><p>“Tell them we’re not doing any of their goddamn interviews.”</p><p>“Not even one? To… calm the storm a little?”</p><p>“Don’t ask me to publicise my kidnapping, Pep. Don’t do that to me.”</p><p>“Okay. Yeah, I’m sorry, that was an overstep.”</p><p>“I’m not - I’m not telling the press about it. Especially not with the kid. They like him way too much. I don’t want us to…”</p><p>“It’s okay, Tony, it’s fine. I’m sorry I pressed.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 6th September 2020 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Math is stupid. </em>
</p><p>Peter tells it to himself a thousand times but it doesn’t get rid of a single one of the fifty algebra questions on the paper before him.</p><p>It doesn’t help that there’s a gnawing ball of anxiety gripping his throat too. Tony is out at his own therapy session; he’d given Peter the option of waiting outside the room for him, but he figured he had to learn to be at least a little independent, and he had to start as soon as possible. <em> “You never let me alone!” </em> he’d complained of Tony, and at the time he’d been convinced he was sick of seeing Tony every day, every night, nothing but Tony, no break from Tony, but he rebukes his words now as he feels his absence like it’s been carved clean out of him.</p><p>Plus, the 10th-grade math problems are… he doesn’t want to admit it, but they’re impossible for him to complete.</p><p>He used to be <em> good </em>at math. </p><p>He just wants to go back, just wants to rush home from school and complete his homework in a flurry of chicken-scratch handwriting and actually Google more challenging questions to stretch his brain and boast about it to May and Ben and have them beam fondly at him like he’s worth a million bucks. </p><p>Now, it seems he just sucks at <em> everything </em> . Math. Taking showers. Growing. Seeing on sunny days. Thinking straight without letting in the chorus of <em> creaking creaking creaking creaking </em>that hammers behind his eyes near-constantly. Talking to people. Stuff that other kids do all the time without batting an eyelid. </p><p>There haven’t even been talks about going to school, and he almost doesn’t want there to be. School presents a whole host of things he doesn’t even want to think about experiencing: cramped corridors, crowds of shouting kids, stuffy rooms, male teachers, and facing just how <em> dumb </em> he’s gotten in four years.</p><p>He thumps his head downwards onto the table right over the paper and stays there. The pressure against his forehead shuts out the world a little.</p><p>He can’t stop thinking about how he’s supposed to be <em> sixteen </em> now. What does <em> sixteen </em> mean? He’s supposed to have friends, right? To worry about detention and pop quizzes and gross cafeteria lunches? To have a girlfriend? To want to have…</p><p>“Who started a war, kid?” breaks him out of his rumination.</p><p>It’s a far cry from the <em> click </em> of the door or Larry’s growl, but it’s just loud enough that Peter can’t help but jump.</p><p>“Oh, high school calculus. Yikes.” There’s a note of perturbation in the voice Peter now identifies as Rhodey’s, but it’s subtle, buried under a layer of propriety Peter is very thankful for.</p><p>“Yeah, I just…” the frustration leaks out of him faster than he can pile it back in, and he groans. “I can’t do it anymore, I’m not smart. I used to be so <em> smart. </em>”</p><p>It’s more words than Peter’s ever said in tandem to him before.</p><p>Rhodey pulls out a chair opposite him, eyebrows raising just slightly. Peter finds himself nodding in permission. Glancing up at Rhodey’s face for a moment, Peter spots a hint of nerves lingering there and feels some of his own trepidation melt away.</p><p>“What level is that?”</p><p>“It’s for sophomore year.”</p><p>“Sophomore year? When was your last math lesson?”</p><p>“Sixth grade.”</p><p>“Do you see the problem there?”</p><p>Peter just shrugs.</p><p>“Can I take a look?” Rhodey offers, and Peter’s brain, his stupid brain, latches onto the words and twists them so <em> taking a look </em> means something dark, something he wishes his mind wouldn't make him think about.</p><p>“At, at the problems?” he stammers.</p><p>Rhodey hums in confirmation, doesn’t tease or criticise him, and he’s overwhelmingly grateful.</p><p>Sliding the paper across, Peter waits as Rhodey winces over the problems. “I don’t envy you, kid. I remember bribing the guy across from me to finish solving my questions on completing the square.”</p><p>“That’s the problem,” huffs Peter, “I don’t even know what completing the square <em> is </em>.”</p><p>“Well, there you go.” Folding his arms on the table, Rhodey leans towards him slightly across the table; Peter waits for the jolt of panic, but it doesn’t come. “There’s no way you can complete these just off the bat. If you don’t know the concepts, it doesn’t matter if you’re smart or not, you won’t be able to do it. But - how about I teach you a little? See if we can complete that square.”</p><p>It takes the realisation that the method involves no actual squares combined with forty minutes of furrowed brows and scribbled-out equations, but they get through the page of problems.</p><p>Peter remembers that he likes math. And he thinks he might like Rhodey, too.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>There are good days and bad days. Some days bring progress, while others destroy it.</p><p>On the 9th of September, Peter stays in bed all day. On the 17th, Tony does the same. They wait for each other.</p><p>On the 19th, Tony finally finds the urge to get up at 4:33 am when the thought of staying inside any longer drives the breath from his lungs. He heads for the porch on unsteady legs, and there he finds the kid, curled against the low brick wall framing the back steps.</p><p>They don’t need words. Tony simply sits by him and tries his best to crop out the rest of the world so it’s just him, Peter, and the moon.</p><p>It looks kindly down upon him, he thinks. He hopes.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>There’s one night that Peter never speaks of. A night when he wakes from a hellscape of creaking and hot breath and hands to a sticky dampness on his sheets. </p><p>He sits shaking in place. Then he finally collects himself enough to throw the sheets and underwear in the laundry with shaking hands. He changes the bedclothes as quietly as possible. He doesn’t think of anything. It’s easier than trying to think of good things when, like an inkstain on a painstakingly crafted project that draws out a whispered curse from the creator, his thoughts, in the same way as him, are tarnished by Larry.</p><p>He can’t bring himself to get back in bed, so he hooks his hands around the undersides of his knees and sits in the silent company of the moon, longing for a heavenly body that shines and delights him rather than the one he has now, the sinful, broken, double-crossing carcass he’s trapped in.</p><p>
  <em> Trapped. Trapped. Trapped. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Peter grows three inches in two months.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>It’s the 10th of October and Tony is shopping with the kid.</p><p>He bets most people don’t note those words with such a marked mixture of excitement and wariness. But for him, it’s the first time. He’s coming to acknowledge that there are a whole lot of firsts that he’ll have to experience before anything starts to feel normal again.</p><p>He checks on the kid every so often, probably too often, but he’s… fine. He has his therapy sessions, he goes to the park, they even went to the movies together a week ago: crowds don’t bother him so much anymore. But Tony can’t shake the irking worry that someone is hidden in the crowd, just waiting for them. That’s how Larry picked him out; it doesn’t seem so unlikely that it might happen again, except this time he’s on high alert. He won’t let it happen.</p><p>They’re picking out fancy juice for the weekend’s dinner when Tony tenses at a hand on his shoulder.</p><p>A clamouring host of thoughts rushes through his mind in an instant. <em>Larry? -</em> <em>Peter’s around the corner, he’s out of danger - but you don’t know that - belt? Knife? - don’t recognize this guy - but he recognizes me--</em></p><p>“Tony Stark!” exclaims the squat man, undeterred by Tony’s stunned silence, “I knew it was you! Hey, I wanted to let you know that you’re really brave for enduring all those years of getting beaten by Larry Miller. Glad you’re still alive.”</p><p>They get these sort of encounters pretty often; although he and Peter couldn’t exactly call themselves famous for their ordeal - <em> thank God </em> - they’re recognized by people in the area. Tony relaxes a little at the thought, the sheen of adrenaline clearing momentarily from his vision-- </p><p>Until the man continues, “Did you get any lasting injuries? You know, like, battle scars?” </p><p>Tony unravels.</p><p>He curls his hands viciously around his shopping cart, his shield. “Hey, Random Guy, I would really appreciate it if you could mind your fucking business right now,” he grits out.</p><p>Peter appears around the aisle as if he has a sixth sense for when Tony’s doing something stupid; Tony knows, he knows, he knows he’s being stupid, but he can’t stop.</p><p>“Woah, I wasn’t - I was just--” </p><p>
  <em> “You grab me like that again, he gets it.” </em>
</p><p>Gesturing towards Peter, who is beginning to quicken his pace towards them both, Tony stands his ground, unaware of the way he’s shuffling apprehensively back and forth. “I’m trying to go about my life with my kid. I don’t need you stressing me out right now, okay?” </p><p>The stranger has the audacity to appear offended. “I wanted to congratulate you, man. For making it.” </p><p>“Congratulate me? Thank you. Thank you so fucking much.” Tony raises his mouth in a mockery of a smile. Anger drowns him. “Being stuck in that Room for five years is so worth it now.” </p><p>He barely notices Peter arriving at his side; not, at least, until the kid curls a hand around his arm and makes a gentle effort to pull him away. There’s concern in his eyes, his brow and mouth, and Tony hates it. “Tony, don’t shout at him. Let’s - let’s just go, let’s get some milk, yeah?” </p><p>The man takes a few uncertain steps away. “I didn’t mean to, uh, set you off--”</p><p>“Right, because I’m a fucking time bomb.” Tony shrugs off Peter’s arm, steps in front of him instinctively. “I’m fragile now, is that it? Well, you should have remembered that before you asked me to show you my <em> fucking torture scars </em>.” </p><p>“It’s okay, Tony,” Peter tells him, words running fast from his mouth; he takes both of Tony’s arms from behind and turns him to face away from the stranger. “Everything’s fine. Please stop yelling.” </p><p>From behind his back, Tony hears, “I’m gonna - I’ll just leave now.” </p><p>Continuing to meet Tony’s gaze, Peter says, “Yeah, I think you should. I’m sorry.” </p><p>“Kid, don’t apologize to him,” Tony finds himself protesting. “He doesn’t owe you anything. Nobody does.”</p><p><em> “Adorable little boy.” </em> </p><p>
  <em> “No, you didn’t - listen to me - please, Larry--” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Shut up.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He stole your life, and Peter's. He took everything.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Everything except the Room. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The Room. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The Room. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Trapped. Oh, God, it’s too small. Shit. I’m going crazy.” </em>
</p><p>Peter’s voice, apologetic, <em> scared </em>, wrests him from his memories. “Tony? Can you try and calm down? We’re in the middle of a Walmart.” </p><p>Tony looks. <em> Space. People. Juice on the shelves. </em>“We’re…” </p><p>“Yeah. People are staring.”</p><p>He feels the burn of eyes on him now, damning, mortifying. </p><p>He’s having a breakdown in the middle of a Walmart.</p><p>“Oh. Shit.” Tony brings his hands up to grip Peter’s arms uselessly. He’s floundering in the dregs of his impulsive rage. The kid is holding him up, unease pouring from his gaze, and this isn’t how it’s meant to be. Tony’s supposed to be strong. “I didn’t - oh, God, kid, I didn’t mean to.” </p><p>The kid is endlessly sympathetic: he squeezes Tony’s hand and nods patiently. “Let’s just get the milk and get out of here, okay? Come on.”</p><p>Tony has forgotten how to move.</p><p>“Come on,” repeats Peter, even more gently, and a rigid net of hate casts itself over Tony, unyielding.</p><p>Shame is hotter than the sting of a belt, more excruciating than a knife.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“I flew off the fucking handle. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”</p><p>“You have to be kind to yourself, Tony,” says his therapist, irritatingly serene. “The last few years have been extremely traumatic, and now that you’re away from that dangerous environment you’re beginning to process and acknowledge it.”</p><p>“Well, maybe if I <em> stop </em> acknowledging it, I won’t break down in the motherfucking juice aisle.”</p><p>“If you don’t come to terms with what’s happened, the way you felt in the store will happen again. I can guarantee you that. You can’t rush recovery. It’s long, painful and it can feel hopeless - but it’s necessary in order to heal. To be there for Pepper, James, and Peter.”</p><p>“What <em>is</em> recovery, then? What do I do?”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“Was it okay?” Peter asks him after. He’s an open book, worry written there all too clearly.</p><p>“Don’t look at me like that, kid.”</p><p>“I just wanna know if it went alright.”</p><p>“I’m fine.”</p><p>Peter looks away, too many years of suffering etched into the frown line making itself known on his brow. “No, you’re not.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>But neither is Peter.</p><p>They’re having dinner on the 12th, pouring out the fancy juice. All it takes is an unanticipated touch on the back from Rhodey to stop him in his tracks.</p><p>“Peter?”</p><p>The kid shakes his head furiously. He doesn’t run or cry or scream, just freezes and won’t straighten back up.</p><p>“C’mon, kid.” He’s at Peter’s side as fast as he can squeeze between the chairs, hovering an inch from him, watching him bristling silently. “It’s all okay, it’s all good. Tony’s here.”</p><p>Rhodey stands adrift at their side. “Tones, I didn’t… I didn’t know.”</p><p>“Not your fault, Platypus.”</p><p>“What should we do, Tony?” Pepper asks, only half-retaining her usual aura of calm. Tony can tell she’s rattled beneath it.</p><p>“Could - could you have dinner on the couch? Just… give him some space.” He attempts a kind tone, but the frozen horror in the kid’s expression is making it difficult to do anything more than curl over him and protect him mindlessly.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” breathes Peter almost unintelligibly. In a moment, he’s reduced to the fragility of the smallest whisper.</p><p>“Don’t be sorry. It’s alright, okay? It’s alright. It’s alright.”</p><p>
  <em> It’s alright. </em>
</p><p>After twenty-seven torturous minutes of fruitlessly attempting to coax the kid out of his rigid position, he finally relaxes enough to slump bonelessly into Tony’s arms.</p><p>“There you go.” He guides them both to the floor. “Let’s just sit here for a minute.”</p><p>Peter is as limp as a ragdoll yet wracked with erratic tremors. He mumbles something incoherent between a string of laboured breaths, something that Tony doesn’t even want to try and decipher. </p><p>Tony swears he can feel his very skin shrivelling at the sight, the sound.</p><p>“It’s alright,” he soothes all the same.</p><p>
  <em> It’s alright. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Tony knows Pepper will bring it up later, but he doesn’t expect the confrontation as early as that same evening as they prepare for bed.</p><p>They’re at the sink, Tony washing his face, Pepper running a brush through her strawberry blonde hair, when she sighs. It’s her patented sigh; it tells Tony without a word exactly what’s bothering her.</p><p>“The kid just needs to work some things out,” he says, “he’s getting there.”</p><p>Taking a seat on the closed toilet lid, Pepper watches him closely. “He’s a lovely kid, Tony, but is this the best place for him? To help him?”</p><p>It’s enough to kickstart the flow of anger. </p><p>He stares back down at her, torn between childish adoration for the curve of her jaw, her flannel pyjamas, the blue wells of her softened eyes, and a spiked iron portcullis that dashes his love to pieces and smothers it in smoking rage and fear. </p><p>There’s fear, too, fear which lies beneath every outburst. </p><p>“You think I can't look after him well enough? Is that it?” he continues with tightening hands.</p><p>Pepper just frowns. “Don’t do this again.” </p><p>Tony responds between fierce scrubs of his face with the towel: “What? Do what again? Fly off the handle? I try my best, Pep, but you can understand it’s a<em> little </em> difficult sometimes. I’m - yeah, I’m insane, and so is Peter. That’s why we belong together.”</p><p>It’s his turn to sigh now as he takes in the sadness in Pepper’s continued gaze. God, he doesn’t deserve her. “I’m not gonna - I can’t let the kid go.” He finds himself taking on an almost pleading tone as rage evaporates rapidly and leaves his terror bared to them both. “He won’t be safe.” </p><p>“Tony, you’re not in the Room anymore. You’re not in danger. He <em> will </em>be safe.”</p><p>
  <em> “Now will you say thank you?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Thank you. I’m… I’m really grateful.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yeah, right.” </em>
</p><p>Pepper could never understand.</p><p>“Look.” He finds himself coming up short at first, but swallows and pushes on. “You can’t know what it was like for us. That’s - that’s it. And I can’t know what it was like for you, yes. But - no matter how many times you tell me that we’ll be safe, being <em> unsafe </em>, that’s my default. I can’t just switch out of it. I wish I could, but I can't. That’s what it’s like for Peter, too. But because he’s with us, he’s getting therapy. He’s getting the best of care.</p><p>“I know that this is <em> crazy </em>. I never would have asked you to take in a kid without consulting you, but this… it’s different. Life is fucking insane now. I didn’t ask for that to happen to any of us. But - remember when we talked about having kids?”</p><p>“And you told me you weren’t ready?” she remarks.</p><p>“If that’s how you wanna remember it, sure.”</p><p>A hint of a grin ghosts Pepper’s face; Tony is put at rest.</p><p>“I mean - look. We have a kid now, I guess. It’s not - what we expected, or wanted, but - I’m seeing this crazy family. A husband and wife, their best friend, and a nerdy kid they picked up along the way. And it <em> works </em> . I just… I need you to trust me, I guess. That it’ll work. It’ll be wild and dysfunctional and people will wonder what the hell is going on with us, and it’ll be the <em> best </em>.”</p><p>Blinking out of his prophetic haze, he notices roughly the same level of surprise in Pepper’s demeanour as his own thoughts.</p><p>“Well, I don’t know what the fuck <em> that </em> was,” he blurts as a way of - apology? Amendment? </p><p>It transpires that no such admission is necessary. Pepper rises from the porcelain lid and draws him into a hug which mirrors the relieved desperation of their embrace in the hospital.</p><p>“I wanna be a part of that family,” she tells him fiercely. “Thank you for showing me how you feel.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Just to be certain everything will get done by the time the adults come downstairs, Peter wakes at 6 am on the 13th of October, padding quietly down to the kitchen and sliding out crockery, pots and pans in the low morning light.</p><p>It’s a breathtaking amalgamation, the rising dawn and the cool, spacious kitchen. Tiles bite at his feet with cold, and somehow the remembrance of the same sensation in the concrete floor of the Room serves to still rather than agitate his heart with the notion that <em> some things stay the same. </em> Larry can’t touch this space, not when pale blades of light lay across the counters and everything Peter touches is freshly cleaned.</p><p>He gets to work. Eggs. Bacon. Pancake batter. Diced fruit. Muffins. Loses himself in the routine of it, the years-gone lectures from Tony as he learnt to make them each at the poky kitchen station in the Room. When they didn’t have the ingredients, they’d sometimes mime with the mixing bowl and spoon, mould dough made of air, fry imaginary feasts on the pan. <em> “No, Pete, you can’t be slapdash with it,” </em> Tony had always teased him, correcting his mimed actions, <em> “Slowly. You’ve got time.” </em></p><p>There was so much spare time lying about in the Room, bundled up in the corners: wasted in bed and in front of the TV and staring at the skylight. Now, there’s no time at all. This has to work.</p><p>Peter will admit that it’s a stupid idea, making breakfast. But he hasn’t got much else to offer.</p><p>He prays it’s enough.</p><p>Pepper is first down the stairs at around 7, still in her pyjamas and a dressing gown. She startles as she catches sight of him.</p><p>All of a sudden, a wave of guilt hits Peter, and he flounders with his spatula for a moment. “Ma’am - uh - Pepper, I, I was--”</p><p>“Didn’t think you’d be down here,” Pepper cuts in with a shake of her head and a smile. Peter reciprocates nervously.</p><p>“You’re… making breakfast?” she prompts curiously.</p><p>“Yeah. It’s for… actually, could you get Tony and Rhodey down? I’m kind of doing a - it’s a, it’s, like… a thing.” </p><p>He feels himself flushing uncomfortably, but Pepper dutifully ignores his dumbfounded stammering. “Well, I don’t know how they’ll feel about getting out of bed before midday,” she says with a confidential smirk, “But I’m sure I can convince them with that breakfast.”</p><p>“They don’t have to come if they, if they don’t want to...”</p><p>“It’s fine, Peter.”</p><p>“Okay, okay, cool. I have to - finish up.”</p><p>“You do that.”</p><p>Two minutes later, the two men have shuffled blearily into the kitchen, and now all three stand before him with varying levels of bemusement written across their faces. Peter realises he hadn’t thought of what he would actually <em> say. </em></p><p>“Um.” He glances at the cold tiles, his pale feet atop them, but forces himself to raise his gaze again. Tony is concerned; Rhodey quizzical; Pepper inquisitive. “Well, first off, I’m not really - uh - good at, you know, <em> talking </em> . So this’ll probably suck. Uh, yeah, sorry in advance. And I’m rambling. Great - great start. Oh, crap… can I start over?”<br/>There’s a unanimous and perplexed nod.</p><p>“I just wanted to apologize,” he blurts. “Because I - first of all, I had a bit of a freak-out yesterday, and, uh… I’m sorry I ruined your night. And Rhodey - it, it really wasn’t your fault at all, it was mine, so I hope you don’t feel bad about it, and maybe we can… forget it?”</p><p>Before he can lose his nerve trying to gauge any reaction from the adults, Peter ploughs on, fiddling relentlessly with the spatula. “And secondly… I’m, I guess I’m just sorry that I’m - here. Around. None of you asked for me, and I’m kinda… <em> wah </em>. All over the place. I’m not a fan of it either. I’m - yeah, I’m really thankful that you guys are looking after me, just, after I appeared out of the blue, this lonely kid who you have to keep because I happened to get kidnapped with Tony. I thought, though, maybe if I showed you guys that I could help out and be… I don’t know, a good kid? Helpful? Not just, you know, a mess? It might be - good. So, I… I made you breakfast.”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>He studies the faces before him, dread already beginning to fester in his stomach, when his face drops at the sight of Pepper <em> crying </em>.</p><p>Peter expects Tony to be the first to respond to him, but it’s her instead: she steps towards him, rests her hands on his shoulders, and gazes so deeply into his eyes he wonders if she’s transferring the tears in her own eyes to his for the way he inadvertently feels himself welling up.</p><p>“Peter, <em> sweetheart </em> ,” she says with such heartbroken affection that he feels his heart bend his ribs with a swell of love that arrives wholly unanticipated. “ <em> I’m </em>so sorry. I’m sorry that we’ve led you to believe all that.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“If that’s the way you feel about us, we’re doing something very wrong. We <em> love </em> you.”</p><p>“You…”</p><p>“Did you really think we didn’t?”</p><p>“I don’t - I don’t know.”</p><p>“Peter, you might have ended up with us by chance, but we’ve chosen you now. Yes, you’re still healing up, but that doesn’t make you a burden. It means - well, sure, it might mean there are times when we eat on the couch, or our schedule has to shift, and times when we feel awkward or worried for you, but that’s just what’s gotta happen.”</p><p>“It’s just - I know you didn’t… you were talking with Tony last night and I sort of overheard some of it…”</p><p>“You heard that? Oh, honey.” She cups his face in a hand that is startlingly soft; before she can retract the gesture out of fear of overstepping his boundaries, Peter brings his own up and circles her wrist. She smiles waveringly, but her words are firm, fervent. “I was thinking about what might be best for you, but I made a mistake. Okay? And Tony set me straight. He reminded me of what a good kid you were. Now, I don’t know you too well yet, but I’d like to change that. And, most importantly, he helped me to remember that we have to make this work. We’re a family.”</p><p>“We are?”</p><p>“We sure are,” Tony cuts in gruffly, engulfing him in one of his warmest hugs, the brand of hug that was Peter’s only anchor in the storm of the Room for so long. The affection that spreads through him at the embrace is overwhelming in the wake of his shameful statement, so much so that he feels hot tears begin to trawl down his cheeks and settle in the fabric of Tony’s t-shirt. </p><p>Relief, delicate and brilliantly golden, bursts to life amid his personal weedy garden of guilt and puts it to shame. His heart trembles with its glorious presence.</p><p>“You’re not getting rid of us any time soon, kid. That’s a promise.”</p><p>“Can I pile in on the sappy group hug?” Rhodey pipes up.</p><p>Tony smirks. “You love them really.”</p><p>“Did I say I didn’t?”</p><p>Rhodey wraps his arms around the bundle. “Peter, about last night?” he ventures. “You don’t have to apologize. I just want to know how we can avoid that next time.”</p><p>“Okay.” Peter nods in his direction, although the action is made mostly redundant by the way he’s sandwiched between Tony and Pepper. “That’s, that’s good. I can do that.” </p><p>“Look at us, being sweet and healthy,” mocks Tony.</p><p>Pepper remains sober. “I think we need more of that now, after everything.”</p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“How have you felt about your personal space since our last talk?”</p><p>“Not… not too bad, I think?”</p><p>“No more freeze-ups?”</p><p>“No. That’s been really nice.”</p><p>“I’m sure it has been. That’s great, Peter. Any other symptoms?”</p><p>“Not a lot of nightmares. I’m fine with having Rhodey around now, I think. I’m still - you know, seeing people out in public, not knowing who they are, that’s still hard - so I get, yeah, I get nervous.”</p><p>“Heart pounding?”</p><p>“Yeah. Sweating. I get shaky, too. But Tony always notices, so he helps me out.”</p><p>“He’s very kind, then.”</p><p>“He knows what it was like. But I just… wish I didn’t do that. I wanna relax.”</p><p>“And you will. You’re recovering really well. It just takes time.”</p><p>
  <em> “You don’t have to be so hard on yourself, yeah? It takes time.” </em>
</p><p>Peter understands now.</p><p>“I guess it does.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Tony knows that Peter’s therapy session on the 20th ends at 11 am, so he accounts for ten minutes of travel and plans accordingly.</p><p>Him, Pepper and Rhodey are all in on it. As expected, Peter hadn’t questioned their shit-eating grins as they mooched around at their own individual paces with breakfast that morning; he’d just smiled back at them, the sweet kid.</p><p>Now, sitting amid five calf-high surprises, Tony feels like he’s just climbed Mount fucking Everest for how proud he is of this idea.</p><p>“Holy shit,” Rhodey remarks mildly, lowering himself to the floor at his side, “I can’t believe we’ve actually done this.”</p><p>“No time like the present to do the craziest things we can dream up, right?”</p><p>“Exactly.”</p><p>The door swings open.</p><p>Pepper enters the living room first, having driven the kid home from therapy, and covers her mouth with a hand to stifle a delighted squeal as she watches Tony and Rhodey.</p><p>“Come here, Peter, there’s something for you,” she calls back in the direction of the kid’s dawdling footsteps.</p><p>“What kinda thing?”</p><p>“A good thing. Just get in here.”</p><p>Finally, the kid’s face pops quizzically around the corner, instantly morphing into the most blissful incarnation of astonishment Tony’s ever witnessed.</p><p>The adults grin in tandem.</p><p>It takes Peter at least ten seconds to formulate any sound past an elegant squawk, but eventually, he comes to his senses a little and sinks to his knees among the gaggle of yapping baby Samoyeds.</p><p>“Oh my <em> God </em> ,” he finally exclaims, sobbing and giggling and stammering all at once, and <em> wow </em> , Tony’s seen no end of him for four years and yet never has he seen him cycle through so many emotions simultaneously. Attempting to juggle all five in his arms as they scrabble at him for attention, he continues on with his faltering speech: “It’s - <em> look </em> - they’re so, this is the best - oh, I’m crying - <em> puppies. </em>”</p><p><em> Little clouds of fluff, </em>the kid had called them, and he’s not wrong: they're bundles of white fur and perky ears and pink paws and bright button-like eyes. Peter laughs wetly as one teeters on his shoulder and licks his ear enthusiastically.</p><p>And - come on, Tony’s only human.</p><p>“Knew you’d like them,” he grins, shuffling towards the hubbub at the centre of the room and snagging a puppy for himself.</p><p>“I can’t believe you did this, Tony. Holy cow. I’m... I’m so happy.” The samoyed at his ear lets out a little howl as if in response, and he coos at it, still wiping away the stream of his tears.</p><p>“Aw, kid.”</p><p>“Look, look at these little guys. They’re <em> gorgeous </em>.”</p><p>“We thought, if you wanted… you could choose one to keep.”</p><p>“If I <em> wanted </em> ? I can <em> have one </em>?”</p><p>“Mm-hm.” </p><p>Tony wonders if he might become addicted to the rapturous look on Peter’s face. He certainly wouldn’t mind spending his life trying to keep it around.</p><p>“You - you guys wouldn’t mind?” Casting a glance to Pepper and Rhodey, sitting side-by-side and beaming from ear to ear, the kid makes a valiant effort to shift his attention away from the four puppies clambering over him.</p><p>“Peter,” chuckles Rhodey, “We have eyes. I see that fluff. I think it might break my heart a little to miss the chance to have one of those running around the house.”</p><p>“I concur,” is all Pepper can make out around the grin that lights up her whole face.</p><p>Peter tips backwards onto the carpet and lets the dogs paw and lick at his face, his chest shaking with peals of laughter. Tony’s heart swells.</p><p>
  <em> Can a heart break from happiness? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>They play with the bite-sized Samoyeds for the rest of the day, Peter putting hours of thought into which he wants to adopt as if it’s life or death. It puts Tony at rest to think that these sorts of decisions are the most pressing the kid will have to make now.</p><p>“This little one,” he eventually says. “Can I pick a name?”</p><p>“It’s your dog, Peter,” Tony reminds him with no small amount of exasperation.</p><p>“Well, it’s sort of everyone’s.”</p><p>“Mostly yours.”</p><p>“That’s - the most exciting thing I think I’ve ever heard.”</p><p>He steers the kid back on course with a fond shake of his head. “Have you got an idea? For a name?” </p><p>“You know Kobol? Where everything began in Battlestar Galactica - the planet that the human race comes from?”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Kobol is spindly, dainty, his downy coat appearing almost too large for his size; he’s quiet and gentle in a way that clues Tony in to why the kid took a liking to him. He sticks to the kid like glue, trotting around his ankles as he puts his dinner dish in the washer and brushes his teeth, settling over his chest or in his lap when given the chance.</p><p>Tony plans on having the dog sleep downstairs, he does, but when he eases open the kid’s bedroom door to see him looking more at home in his room than Tony’s ever seen, a bundle of white fur tucked between his arms as he reads a Bronte novel of all things, his discipline gives way with mortifying speed.</p><p>Sitting on his haunches by the bed for a moment, he scratches gently at Kobol’s tiny head and receives a little snore by way of appreciation.</p><p>“Do you want your turn now?” he jests at the kid’s smile.</p><p>“Am I… allowed to say yes?”</p><p>“Oh, of course.” Tony reaches out a hand and cards it through Peter’s scalp in the motion he knows the kid likes most. He spent years on the couch pretending to watch TV when really he was watching the tension in the kid’s body, finding the right pattern that would dissolve it. It works like magic now: Peter hums contentedly, his eyes shutting of their own accord.</p><p>“You’re never too old for this, you know. When you’re thirty and I’m ancient, I’m gonna keep on petting you.”</p><p>“Mm,” is all Peter seems capable of saying in response.</p><p>“Yeah, it’s no use preaching to you right now, is it?”</p><p>“‘m tryin’,” the kid manages.</p><p>“You don’t have to. Just get some good sleep, alright?”</p><p>“Uh-huh.”</p><p>When he’s certain Peter’s dropped off, Tony slides the book out from between his hands, placing it on the nightstand, and sets his hands on Kobol’s pale fur.</p><p>“You look after him,” he whispers to the snoozing puppy. “Keep those nightmares away.”</p><p>Looking back at the kid, Tony feels a weight lift from his back; inhaling, he marvels at the way his ribs expand. After thousands of nights watching Peter climb into bed with reluctance, unease, even fear, there’s a beauty to the peace in his sleeping figure now. His bed is the safe space it always should have been: a place to sleep and nothing more. </p><p>To rest.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 4th November 2020 </em>
</p><p>Tony’s going insane. He can tell because he can’t walk another step without releasing every molecule of the seething red-and-black mass that’s been rankling in his bones, sludging through his blood, filming over his eyes.</p><p>Because he can’t bear it anymore.</p><p>Pepper finds him sitting at the empty dinner table at 3:36 am. Without a word, she crosses the distance between them and laces her fingers through his deadweight digits.</p><p>“Tony,” she whispers, the word carrying the weight of years.</p><p>
  <em> Belt belt knife knife trapped trapped trapped out out out click adorable little boy click shut up I have to hear him raping you grunting creaking whimpering it’s a fucking twelve-by-twelve foot space I miss my life belt it hurts belt amazing kid belt belt belt belt nothing in that stupid little head of yours can’t believe you fucking hit me knife knife knife-- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> One time, Larry hadn’t waited until nightfall to come for Peter. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tony had shielded him, crouched in the corner like always. Larry followed a routine - almost always. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> This time, he’d wrenched Tony aside with frightening strength, grabbed the kid, shoved him onto the bed on his back - Tony caught a look of pure panic on Peter’s face - and crawled on top of him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It left Tony standing there, watching. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Larry didn’t even bother to pull the covers over them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tony watched as Peter’s eyes screwed shut, his jaw locked furiously in place, his face flushed and beaded with sweat as he turned away from Larry’s - but the man just gripped his chin in a hand and tugged it back. He listened to two sets of panting breaths. He watched the kid’s bare knees floundering between Larry’s. He just stood there and watched. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The most nightmarish thing about it was that nobody said a word. </em>
</p><p>A cacophony of past and present suffering tumbles from him, sends him to his feet, and he doesn’t care who hears, so he yells. “Everything’s just… everything about this is fucking <em> crazy </em> . Why couldn’t everything be <em> normal </em> ? Why do I have to worry about shit like PTSD and losing control in Walmart and - I just wanna - get the fucking highlight reel of the Room <em> out of my brain! </em> It won’t go away. And I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to tell you about how the kid would have to scrape me off the floor after that motherfucker beat me to a pulp, I don’t want it in your brain.”</p><p>“I don’t mind having it in my brain,” Pepper cuts in softly but firmly, searching for his gaze. “I need to know what it was like for you. Even if you’re not ready now, tell me someday.”</p><p>Tony is past comforting. He’s lost in reels of appalling images. “Pep, you can’t even imagine. I tried to kill myself in there. That’s even before Larry brought in the kid and he - and he--”</p><p>His throat sticks.</p><p>“Hey, it’s all okay. Maybe we should go for the <em> tell me someday </em>option, yeah? Stay calm, honey.” Pepper makes to enclose him in her arms, desperation beginning to overtake the ever-present composure of her features.</p><p>Tony turns away on instinct. “It’s jammed in there like a fucking faulty record, my damn - <em> head </em> .” He slams a flat palm against his temple for emphasis. An animal has the reins to his limbs and mouth, an animal that wants to claw and scream and destroy. “I can’t get away from everything that reminds me of it, my scars won’t go away, it hurts to do anything and that’s so <em> stupid </em> . I just - all I wanted was to go through life like a normal fucking person, work a desk job, come through the door and say “honey, I’m home,” and watch mind-numbing TV and eat ice cream. I just wanted to have some fucking <em> ice cream </em>. Is that too much to ask?”</p><p>The pressure just below his skin is flaying him; he wants to tear it off, tear out his goddamn <em> brain </em>.</p><p>
  <em> OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT-- </em>
</p><p>“I wanted - I wanted - but he took it all away. He fucking <em> ruined my life! </em> Now everything’s messy and fragile and I can’t - do - anything - and I can’t bear it, Pep.”</p><p>In an instant, the admission fells him. </p><p><em> I can’t bear it, Pep, I can’t bear it, Pep </em> rattles through Tony’s mind as rage gives up its final stake on his heart, leaving him with a pit, gaping, hollowed out, dreadful, of despair.</p><p>He stares the creature of his pain in the eye for the first time.</p><p>Sinking to the floor in its fearful presence, Tony sobs.</p><p>Pepper joins him in an instant, crouches there on the floor with the shaking, crying mess of a man that he is, but doesn’t trap him in an embrace this time, just holding his hand. It’s so simple. So gentle. </p><p>Tony cries out wordlessly. <em> It hurts. </em></p><p>“Shhh,” she whispers to him.</p><p>It’s intended as a comfort, but Tony remembers the way Larry had said it, the sickening, crooning tone: <em> “Shhh.” </em></p><p>
  <em> Grunting, creaking, whimpering. </em>
</p><p>He finds himself thinking aloud, his voice low and rusty in the same way it had been when he’d first brought it back to life talking to the kid in the Room, but etched now with additional anguish that taints it irrevocably. “He always made the kid stay quiet, but it didn’t matter, I woke up every time it happened, and I had to hear it, him with his hands all over Peter, every time, just - fucking horrifying--”</p><p>
  <em> Grunting, creaking, whimpering-- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You’re no good for anything but this.” </em>
</p><p>“And I couldn’t do anything, I just had to<em> ignore it. </em> Who would fucking <em> do </em> that? Why are people so <em> awful </em>?”</p><p>“I know. I know.” Pepper is reassuring to the end. God, Tony doesn’t deserve a second of her time.</p><p>But she doesn’t <em> understand </em>.</p><p>“No, you don’t know.”</p><p>She hasn’t known the sick glint in Larry’s eyes as he sized the kid up, the screaming pain of belts, fists, knives, the feel of walls twelve feet apart and the knowledge that it’s the entirety of the space he had to exist in. She hasn’t had the stored horrors fly off their shelves just when he thought he’d locked them up tightly enough that they wouldn’t bother him again.</p><p>
  <em> OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT-- </em>
</p><p>“I have torn off the whole of May and June,” Pepper recites, catching Tony off guard.</p><p>The words are achingly familiar. <em> The Waves </em>. Virginia Woolf. The same book he and Peter had spent years poring over in the Room - one of five books they were allowed to own.</p><p>The words are beautiful, too, though they’re simple. They’re so perfect they break him. </p><p>“I have torn them off so that they no longer exist, save as a weight in my side. There are only eight days left. Then my freedom will unfurl, and all these restrictions that wrinkle and shrivel - hours and order and discipline, and being here and there exactly at the right moment - will crack asunder. I shall tremble. I shall burst into tears.” </p><p>Tony lays on the floor and bawls, bawls out his anguish, and Pepper lays with him, her voice the anchor in his storm.</p><p>“Then next morning I shall get up at dawn. I shall let myself out by the kitchen door. I shall walk on the moor. I shall see the swallow skim the grass. I shall throw myself on a bank by the river and watch the fish slip in and out among the reeds. The palms of my hands will be printed with pine-needles. I shall here unfold and take out whatever it is I have made here; something hard.” </p><p>Grasping for Pepper’s hand, Tony clutches it to his face, presses a stuttering kiss to her palm.</p><p>“For something has grown in me here, through the winters and summers, on staircases, in bedrooms. I want to give, to be given.”</p><p>They wait for the waves to pass, the tide to roll out, and the memories to subside, newly uprooted in a manner that might just allow them to float away in time.</p><p>Tony’s ocean is stormy and littered with detriment, but Pepper’s hand is his rudder, the moon his guiding light, and his family his beloved crew.</p><p>He will make it.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>When the muted conversation downstairs becomes punctuated by cries he knows belong to Tony, Peter is struck by the urge to run to him, to provide whatever paltry, childish comfort he can muster. Creeping soundlessly down the stairs - he’s good at staying quiet - he watches through the banisters. </p><p>Pepper is with him.</p><p>It sets his heart instantly at rest in a way he hadn’t expected in the least. There’s no envy, no fear in his heart; he’s just <em> relieved </em>. Tony has people to hold him up, and it doesn’t have to be Peter anymore.</p><p>He climbs back upstairs but stops at a different door.</p><p>Entering the guest bedroom, he finds Rhodey wide awake. His bedside lamp spills warm light across his face as he perches straight-backed on the edge of the bed. Peter’s not the only person who has heard the voices below.</p><p>“Hi, kid,” he greets quietly, his brow lifting only slightly in surprise.</p><p>He pats the covers beside him. Peter winds his legs around one another as he sits at Rhodey’s side, bare toes flexing impulsively.</p><p>Tony’s sobs haunt them both. And yet, there’s a solidarity to them all sitting up at once, all holding themselves together.</p><p>Peter lets himself go. In a slow but purposeful movement, he tilts his head to the side and rests it on Rhodey’s shoulder. Rhodey responds by settling an arm around Peter’s back.</p><p>They sit together as the distant cries subside.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“Our studio recently received a statement from the court detailing Larry Miller’s sentence,” a newsreader reports. “He has been found guilty of two counts of aggravated kidnapping; he will receive a life sentence without parole.</p><p>“I’m sure Tony Stark and Peter Parker will feel as relieved as us all to hear that Miller will be fully prosecuted. Our neighbours and kids are safe from another threat that once walked the streets freely.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>On the 5th of December, Tony, Peter, Rhodey, Pepper and Kobol pile into Tony’s Audi - it being a Friday, Rhodey had booked it to their house from work without dropping anything off at his own home, Peter had made sure to finish his online homework to leave time for the trip, and Pepper had taken the afternoon off her own job, but Tony, unemployed as of yet, had spent a leisurely day walking the puppy and distracting the kid - and make the three-hour journey to Massachusetts.</p><p><em> Get burgers at Nelson’s </em>had made its way onto <em>P</em><em>eter and Tony Do Stuff</em>, and so it had to be ticked off.</p><p>Kobol and Peter doze off in sync. The adults coo at them both. When the kid comes to life again half an hour later, they shuffle 80s pop songs and sing along crookedly.</p><p>At 7:48 pm, they push open the doors to Nelson’s and are met with the man himself.</p><p>“Tony. James.”</p><p>Mr. Nelson remembers them after hundreds of impromptu visits to the place in their college days. There’s a sadness to the recognition in the usually jovial man’s voice, however, an undertone that is reflected in his eyes and tells Tony instantly that he’s heard of what happened.</p><p>Offering the restaurant owner a nod and a handshake, Tony replies, “Mr. Nelson. You look better than ever. You’ve met Pepper, haven’t you?”</p><p>“I have. Three years ago, I think.”</p><p>“And - this is Peter. My kid.”</p><p>The kid smiles shyly up at him and makes the same observation as Tony: “I have a feeling you’ve seen me before, sir.”</p><p>“I have.” Looking between them both, Delmar simply says, “You two are remarkably strong people.”</p><p>They’re guided to the booth in the corner that overlooks the window, Tony’s seat of choice; menus are procured and they order, bartering for portions of each other’s desserts and fries. Kobol settles between Peter’s feet, appearing happy to sit patiently among his people. The kid calms down considerably at the contact with his dog.</p><p>A strange feeling adjacent and yet opposite to nostalgia is bubbling up in Tony at the sight of his new family filling the booth, knowing there’s a memory cooking in his brain that he’ll turn over in his hands again and again in the future. The version of himself that had sloped through the restaurant doors for the first time back in 1994 would never believe that the Tony of 2020 has an incredible wife, a faithful best friend, and a pseudo-son who he grew to care for within the walls of the Room, and it gives Tony a hell of a kick to think of how different he is now to that aimless young adult.</p><p>“Peter, that’s <em> gross </em>,” whinges Rhodey, fixated on the indulgent swirling motions of a handful of the kid’s fries through his milkshake.</p><p>“No, it’s not,” Peter insists. “It’s <em> good </em>.” </p><p>He’s grown bolder in the last few months. Every day, something new emerges in him; Tony doesn’t think he’ll ever stop discovering him.</p><p>Narrowing her eyes, Pepper nabs a fry from her own carton and dunks it in Peter’s milkshake too.</p><p>Rhodey just shakes his head, biting back a grin.</p><p>Pepper widens her eyes as she pops the fry in her mouth, turning to the kid to sing the praises of his strange combination of flavours: “What the hell? It’s delicious!”</p><p>There’s a deep joy in the centre of Tony’s chest, something he’s never quite felt before.</p><p>He laughs aloud.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p><em> “Where are you going?” </em>Lee Adama asks Starbuck quietly.</p><p>Curled up on the couch the night after their trip to Cambridge, Tony and Peter watch the final scenes of Battlestar Galactica play out, utterly rapt. The living room, the TV screen, the distant sounds of Pepper preparing for bed on the floor above, have melted from their consciousnesses; Tony is sure that he’s standing right there in that windswept field with the pilots, contemplating a future of unexpected and bittersweet freedom.</p><p>The tears in Starbuck’s eyes conflict with her smile. <em> “I don’t know. I just know that I am done here. I’ve completed my journey, and… it feels good.” </em></p><p>Tony tugs the kid a little closer to him.</p><p>
  <em> So what about you? What’re you gonna do? Today is the first day of the rest of your life, Lee.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Well… I always thought when this was all done I would - kick back. Relax. Spend the rest of my days doing the absolute minimum humanly possible.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “And now that you’re here?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I wanna explore. I wanna climb the mountains. I wanna cross the oceans.” </em>
</p><p>“Did we add anything with mountains or oceans to the list?” Peter comments, only half-joking if the wistful curve of his lips is anything to go by.</p><p>“Not yet. You wanna try vacationing with Lee?”</p><p>“I mean, as much as I’d love to because he’s super cool and I feel like he’d be up for anything, I guess I’m gonna have to go with you instead.” The kid snickers a little at his own line.</p><p>“Oy.”</p><p>“Kidding.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Peter nestles his head further into the crook of Tony’s shoulder.</p><p>The open fields fade into a wide shot of modern-day New York City, buzzing blocks of skyscrapers penning in the deep red and green trees of Central Park. A line of text reads <em> 150,000 years later. </em></p><p>Peter gapes. “One hundred and fifty <em> thousand </em>?” </p><p>“I swear it was a shorter time jump the last time I watched it,” Tony concurs, baffled.</p><p>Caprica Six and Gaius Baltar walk the streets.</p><p>“How is Gaius still alive?” pipes up Peter.</p><p>“I guess that… that must prove he’s a Cylon?”</p><p>“But he wasn’t… was he?”</p><p>“Maybe he’s not really there in this scene? He’s an illusion again?”</p><p>Caprica Six speaks in her usual sultry tone, indicating the buzzing city around them:<em> “All of this has happened before.” </em></p><p><em> “But the question remains - does all of this have to happen again?” </em>Gaius prompts her.</p><p>Tony winces. “Gaius is in dire need of better sunglasses.”</p><p>Giggling against his side, Peter adds, “I was about to say that.”</p><p>With a smile, Six says, <em> “This time I bet no.” </em></p><p>“Did you ever like Caprica Six?”</p><p>Tony shakes his head. “Manipulative.”</p><p><em>Can't believe you fucking hit me</em> rattles briefly through his head, but he ignores it, keeps holding on to the kid, and it passes.</p><p>
  <em> “You know, I’ve never known you to play the optimist, why the change of heart?” </em>
</p><p><em> “Mathematics,” </em> Caprica Six says, pausing to address Gaius with nonchalant confidence. <em> “Law of averages. Let a complex system repeat itself long enough, eventually, something surprising might occur. That too is in God’s plan.” </em></p><p>
  <em> “You know, it doesn’t like that name.” </em>
</p><p>“It?” Peter cries. “What does that <em> mean </em>?”</p><p>“You know what the worst part is, kid?”</p><p><em> “Silly me.” </em> Gaius smirks, allowing Caprica Six to slip an arm around him as they disappear back into the crowds of the Manhattan streets. <em> “Silly, silly me.” </em></p><p>“They don’t ever tell us what it <em> does </em>mean.”</p><p>It’s a mind-bending, sobering ending. Peter doesn’t move an inch or speak a word against Tony’s side as the credits begin to scroll.</p><p>Craning his neck to watch the kid’s reaction, Tony finds his eyes on him already.</p><p>“You’ve got your thinking face on, Pete. Wanna share?”</p><p>“Do you remember anything from after Larry left on the 10th of August?”</p><p>Tony stills. “Not much,” he says eventually.</p><p>“After I tried to patch you up, I didn’t know what to do. I lay there on the floor with you for a while. And then I put on that sixth Battlestar episode. I guess I was trying to pretend that everything was normal. And I kept telling you that everything was going to work out.”</p><p>
  <em> “We don’t have the last episode, remember, so it feels like everything’s bad, but it’s - it’s - it’ll all be okay. Just wait.” </em>
</p><p>“Did you really think it would?” Tony asks him gently, guided by a gut feeling that it’s the question Peter needs to be asked.</p><p>“I wanted to.  But it just felt like I had <em> nothing </em>. You were - you were the only good thing about the Room. I realised that when you left for the hospital. When I was by myself, I had nothing at all, but when I’m with you… I have enough.”</p><p>“Kid.” The thickness of Tony’s voice surprises him. Pulling Peter into a fiercer embrace, he attempts to affect grouchiness between kisses to his forehead and temple: “Give me - a little warning - before you spring - a sermon - on me.”</p><p>“I mean it,” Peter tells him through a furtive laugh as he leans into the kisses.</p><p>“I know you do.” </p><p>Tony pulls away. The moment feels charged now, momentous. </p><p>“God, you know what? You’re just - the best kid I ever laid eyes on. And this isn’t only because you complimented me just now. Ask me any time and I won’t have changed my mind. You’re a force of nature, you’re something else. Don’t you forget that.”</p><p>“Tony,” whispers the kid, eyes glimmering.</p><p>Tony is reminded of his own reaction just moments ago. “Look, now you’re doing it.”</p><p>They share a half-muted, half-delirious laugh, a one-of-a-kind thing that Tony won’t easily forget.</p><p>He’s gradually papering over the images of the Room with views of the outside world and glimpses of his favourite people, plastering hope across past despair in the same way Peter had covered the walls with scrap paper drawings; he can understand why the kid took so much comfort in the familiar outlines.</p><p>Then ensues a lengthy moment of silence, a silence they both might well have been happy to rest in for hours.</p><p>“Getting late,” Tony says eventually.</p><p>“Mm. I don’t wanna move.”</p><p>They are entangled rather comfortably, but just conking out on the couch isn’t really an option. Not, anyway, for Tony, who knows that his damaged joints won’t thank him in the morning if he stays here.</p><p>“C’mon. Much more comfy upstairs.”</p><p>Tony eases himself to his feet then pulls at Peter’s hands with his own, levering the kid slowly away from the couch. Eventually, Peter concedes, pulling his own weight and climbing to his feet.</p><p>Padding through the hallway and up the stairs together, the darkness of night holds a kind of magic - a hushed sort of freedom.</p><p>He heads to his bedroom and Peter heads to his. He changes into pyjamas, washes his face, brushes his teeth, goes through mundane motions with a ridiculously incongruous flame of happiness heating his heart.</p><p>Stealing back across the landing and knocking on the kid’s door, he finds the same image as he tends to find: Peter with his nose in his book and Kobol curled up beneath his chin. It calms Tony, the familiarity, the security of it.</p><p>He can tell by the understanding with which Peter meets his gaze that the same notion is occurring to the kid at the sight of Tony crouching by his bedside as always.</p><p>Tony doesn’t care how old Peter is: he’d missed out on years of being tucked into bed and Tony is more than happy to make up for it.</p><p>“Is it getting any less depressing?” he asks of the novel Peter has just set down, <em> Jane Eyre. </em></p><p>“It’s not <em> depressing</em>, it’s <em>meaningful</em>. And she’s having a good time at Mr. Rochester’s place tutoring Adele, so… yes, things are looking up.”</p><p>“That makes all of us, then.”</p><p>“Guess it does.”</p><p>They’re not perfect. They never will be. But they’re walking on despite everything, and that counts for a lot.</p><p>Tony drops a kiss on the crown of the kid’s head. “Love you, Peter.”</p><p>“Love you too.”</p><p>Raising himself from his haunches, Tony turns on his heel and softly shuts the door to Peter’s bedroom. Then he turns his steps for his own room once again, climbs between the sheets, wraps an arm around Pepper, and goes to sleep in the illogical yet resolute knowledge that he’s one of the luckiest men alive.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is not the end!! Chapter 5 will detail Tony and Peter's growth after a significant time jump... and I'm gonna be honest and say that I really don't have a concrete idea of what is gonna happen in it yet?? So if any of you guys have things you wanna see, from small moments to what the plot of the entire thing might look like, please drop a comment below! It might just end up in the next chapter :) I'm planning on transitioning to a few years in the future, with Tony working again and Peter in college. So get those ideas down if you have anything to say; it'd be a great help!!<br/>You guys are incredible. I'm loving the response so much!!! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here it is, folks, the final installment - for real this time!!<br/>I'm feeling pretty emotional about this one although it's definitely not the project I've spent the longest on... I hope you guys have enjoyed it :)<br/>A gentler chapter this time, and shorter as well. I've included a couple of ideas that were sent in!</p><p>Trigger warning for Chapter 5 (this warning contains spoilers):<br/>Mention of past family loss, rape, kidnapping, physical abuse; very mild swearing; mild allusions to anxiety</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em> 2020 </em>
</p><p><br/>...<br/><br/><br/></p><p>
  <em> 27th February 2021 </em>
</p><p>Peter runs a finger reverently over the thick leaf of paper. He wants to revel in the writing there for just a moment longer before he goes to sleep.</p><p>
  <em> This is to certify that Peter Parker has been adopted into the Stark family. </em>
</p><p><br/>...<br/><br/><br/></p><p>
  <em> 2022 </em>
</p><p><br/>...<br/><br/><br/></p><p>
  <em> 7th March 2023 </em>
</p><p>Tony has a key to the kid’s dorm but, laden down with bags as he is, he raps on the door instead.</p><p>Countless quiet nights in Peter’s senior year had been spent by the two of them in the blue glow of a laptop, planning the next few years of the kid’s life through the small screen.</p><p>“You told me you wanted to be a teacher when we first met.”</p><p>“Tony, I was twelve. A lot has changed.”</p><p>The kid’s passion for art came to override all else, and he kept returning to the tab they’d opened on The School of Visual Arts’s Fine Arts course. Tony isn’t one to deny him the things he wishes for.</p><p>After much deliberation over the accommodation Peter would stay in, a disclosure of his experiences to the college staff - after attempting to get the kid through even a year of high school without warning them had ended in disaster, they thought better of giving it a second try - and a host of other awkward encounters and signing of papers, Peter Parker had a place at SVA.</p><p>The kid is at college. He’s at <em> college </em>.</p><p>It’s the first day of spring break; Tony is here to stock up his cupboards with goodies college students might not think to buy and then whisk him away on vacation. Mostly, however, he just wants to set his eyes on him again. Hold on to him with his gaze and never relinquish it.</p><p>He really misses his kid.</p><p>The door swings open in an instant, almost as if the kid had been waiting right by it.</p><p>There is Peter, eighteen years old, <em> so damn old </em>, and now almost as tall as Tony, sporting his trademark loose jeans and hoodie, hair curly and overgrown, a beam breaking out across his face. He throws his arms around Tony; a peace, a relieved sense of being complete, settles across them both.</p><p>Tony drops his bags to the floor and holds him fiercely. “Kid,” he murmurs, planting a kiss above his ear.</p><p>“Tony.”</p><p>Peter seems to have no intention of moving, and Tony doesn’t mind staying right where they are, so he winds his hands in the kid’s hair and sighs.</p><p>Tony breathes. Peter breathes. They forget the fact that they’ve been standing awkwardly in the doorway for what might well be a full minute or two if Tony cared to count. </p><p>Time no longer rules his life in the way it did in the Room. Time is not something to waste anymore, it’s something to use, and he figures he’s used it pretty well: starting a new business is certainly labour-intensive, but he ends each day in the knowledge that the products Stark Industries manufactures will help potential victims of violent crime or kidnapping. People like him. People like the kid.</p><p>He tells anyone who will listen about his business. It’s small as of yet, producing models of phones and watches with trackers, failsafes, emergency settings, but it’s growing in popularity. It also gives him a logical excuse to bombard Peter with prototype gadgets, including the Stark phone now resting heavily at the bottom of one of his piles of bags, and have him “test” them regularly. Seeing a blinking red dot on his computer screen, knowing Peter is on campus where he belongs, gives him the kind of security even calling the kid regularly can’t quite match.</p><p>It’s difficult for them to live apart, but it’s necessary. Tony can’t hover around him for the rest of his life. The joy, however, of being able to hold him after a month of wistful phone calls, that feeling is unparalleled, and it surges blissfully through him now.</p><p>“You okay?” he asks habitually.</p><p>“Yeah, I’m great. You?”</p><p>“Real good.”</p><p>A telltale scurrying of dainty paws alerts them both then to the arrival of Kobol, now large enough to nose around above their knees, trying to paw his way into the hug.</p><p>“Wait a second, baby,” Peter laughs, “I gotta have my Tony time first, okay?”</p><p>As if he’s understood exactly what the kid said, the dog settles for sitting eagerly across Peter’s feet.</p><p>A sarcastic voice tinged with a Southern accent cuts through their snickers: “I’m pretty sure I made out the word <em> baby </em>in that sentence, but I thought I’d check all the same that you were definitely talking to the dog again and not me.”</p><p>“Better luck next time, Harley,” Peter calls back, the remark full of mirth but muffled by the way he’s burrowed into Tony’s shirt.</p><p>Harley steals silently towards where he and the kid are still locked in a hug and grabs the bags from around them, first taking out a jar of Nutella and stabbing a finger right through the plastic covering to hook out a glob of the substance, then piling up a bundle of fresh food in his arms and sorting it with a neatness contradictory to his previous action.</p><p>Despite the Keener kid’s eccentricities, he seems to have a soft spot for Peter, and the kid himself advocates for the lanky student.</p><p>“You’d better not steal the kid’s share, Keener,” he warns all the same, aware that he doesn’t appear very threatening from his current position cradling Peter.</p><p>Harley affects deep offense, throwing an arm across his chest. “I would do no such thing, <em> Stark </em>.”</p><p>Before Tony can reply, Peter interrupts them both: “Okay! that’s a wrap on the quip-off. Quit while you’re ahead, please.”</p><p>“Alright, kid,” Tony chuckles, gripping him tighter still.</p><p>“I've gotta show you my portfolio. I know I sent photos, but you can’t fully appreciate just how, how <em> awful </em> I am at sculpting. Like, they let me take it back here because they wouldn’t have let me add it to my body of work in a million years.”</p><p>“I would like that very much.”</p><p>“And - Ned, Harley and, uh, and MJ are gonna have lunch with us if you’re still up for that?”</p><p>“Oh, for sure. Your friends provide no end of entertainment.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Peter has fallen hard for the girl. And to top it all off, Tony is at least eighty percent sure that the kid himself is the only one at the table right now who doesn’t know it.</p><p>It’s rather endearing, the blushing whenever MJ addresses him, the heart eyes and the abundance of timid smiles, but it’s the response of a high school kid, not a college student, and yet another glaring example of the kid’s struggle to adjust to the life of a young adult. He’d only attended high school for his senior year; Tony distinctly remembers sitting through a twenty-minute monologue when he returned home after his first day, within which was the remark, “Girls are… different.”</p><p>He’s yet to attempt The Talk with Peter. Does the kid need the Talk? Maybe he needs it more than anyone. But how on earth does Tony broach <em> that </em> subject?</p><p>MJ, for what it’s worth, receives Peter’s awkward attentions with more friendliness than any of the other interactions Tony’s seen her engage in. When she talks to the kid, she actually smiles, forgoing the deadpan stare that appears to be a fixture on her face.</p><p>Ned punches the air in exultation as Peter sets plates before them all. “<em> Yes. </em>”</p><p>“It’s just grilled cheese with a little bacon,” the kid responds with a furtive smile.</p><p>“But you make it so <em> good </em>.”</p><p>“I, uh, I put spinach in yours instead, MJ, because - vegetarian. You - you already know that. Yeah.”</p><p>MJ just quirks a teasing eyebrow at him.</p><p>Tony bites the corner of his cheek. He's torn between groaning and bursting out laughing. Whether he gets round to The Talk or not, he has a moral duty to help the kid out with navigating this relationship.</p><p>A strange yet pleasant atmosphere settles across the group as they enjoy Peter’s grilled cheese. Tony observes the bizarre banter the four students share. They all feed small scraps to Kobol. Harley smothers his sandwich in hot sauce; Peter drizzles a little onto his own, takes a bite, and promptly hacks it right back out. Tony pats him on the back, unable to keep from snickering along with the rest of the table. He even gets to squeeze Peter to his side for a moment and embarrass him in front of his friends by asking too many questions about his time at college.</p><p>“Okay,” he remarks with a clap of his hands as a line of text scrolls across his watch: <em>1 pm</em> <em> <em>.</em> Leave now for: Interview. </em> “Time to reveal all our secrets, Pete.”</p><p>A little of the light fades from Peter’s countenance. “Okay. Okay, yeah.” Tony notices his gaze flicker back and forth just once - he’s learnt to control his nervous behaviours almost entirely, but Tony knows him well enough to see them even when he’s hiding them.</p><p>“Good luck, dork,” MJ tells him fondly as he turns to leave, reaching to push a strand of his hair out of his eyes. “We’ll get the dishes.”</p><p>Peter just stands and stares at her long after she’s moved away.</p><p>
  <em> God help this kid. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The minute Peter buckles his belt after securing Kobol in his crate in the boot, Tony takes his hands off the steering wheel and says, “We don’t have to do this.”</p><p>Peter’s gaze locks on Tony. “I want to do this, Tony. That’s it.”</p><p>It sounds so decided, so confident, that Tony can’t argue with it. Ignoring the way his hands feel weighted as if manacled, he shifts the car into gear. His chest feels irritatingly tight all of a sudden.</p><p>They’ve barely made it out of the parking lot when he feels a wiry hand brush against his knuckles.</p><p>“Tony?”</p><p>Peter’s face is stricken with solemn realisation as he studies Tony.</p><p>“No. Don’t do the thing where you get all concerned about me. You’ve decided to go ahead and do an interview, I’m gonna support you.”</p><p>“You don’t have to, like, actually do the interview. You could, you could sit off to the side and just be there.”</p><p>“I’ve made my decision. We’ve both made our decision. It’s fine.”</p><p>When Peter leans back into his seat, it’s with a new degree of anxiety that Tony curses himself for helping bring about. He decides to shut up for a little while in the hope that they’ll both calm down in the silence: turning his attention to the wide alleys of the city roads, the endless lines of cars before and behind them, the pale grey sky above busy blocks of towering buildings, he tries and fails to distract himself from the prospect of strangers intruding on his experience in the Room.</p><p>Sky. Road. Cars. <em> Hit. Belt. Knife.  </em></p><p>“Hey, screw it. Let’s - kid, count us through those therapy breaths.”</p><p>“Box breathing?”</p><p>“Whatever.”</p><p>Despite his unconscious shifting back and forth in his seat, Peter seems pleased to have something to do. “Yeah. Okay. We’re gonna inhale for four counts, exhale for six. Breathe in…”</p><p>His hand settles lightly over Tony’s on the gear shift again, an index finger tapping the beats, <em> one, two, three, four </em>, and Tony gathers as much oxygen into his lungs as he can muster. Peter’s deep inhale mirrors his, a silent display of solidarity.</p><p>“...and out.” <em> One, two, three, four, five, six. </em></p><p>“In… and out.”</p><p>
  <em> One, two, three four. One, two, three, four, five, six. </em>
</p><p>Tony waits for <em> hit, belt, knife, </em> but it doesn’t come.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The news crew sits them on a couch together then proceeds to fuss around them both in a manner that Tony can tell is beginning to elevate the kid’s nerves. There’s a crew member hurrying to adjust the square of light directed towards them; another fiddling with an immense camera on a stand; someone dispelling invisible flecks of dust from the surfaces surrounding them; a host of people caking both their faces in powder, fixing their hair, clipping microphones to their shirts; and an impeccably groomed man sitting across from them, a man who will presumably be conducting the interview.</p><p>When he sees Peter flinching away from a technician who’s wormed a hand beneath his shirt collar to conceal the mic wire, Tony raises his voice just a little: “Hey, why don’t we just get right on with this? I think we look alright for kidnapping survivors.”</p><p>There’s a polite smattering of laughter, and the technician removes his hand, which is all Tony really cared about. Peter shoots a relieved smile in his direction.</p><p>“Is the dog… absolutely necessary?” one of the cameramen asks them, watching Kobol nudge at Peter’s hand from where he’s curled up in his lap.</p><p>Tony’s ready to stick up for the kid again, but Peter beats him to it. “Sir, he’s an emotional support animal. He helps me stay calm.” Tony supposes he’s become used to repeating the spiel to every skeptical staff member at college.</p><p>“He’s very cute,” adds the interviewer with a smile that at least appears to be genuine.</p><p>“Thanks.” Peter leans down for a moment to press a kiss to the silky fur at the back of Kobol’s neck. “He’s, uh, he’s on his best behaviour right now. You should see him in the park when he spots a pigeon or something.”</p><p>The smile the interviewer offers by way of response is polished, a little too much so.</p><p>“Now, I want you two to know that you guide this interview,” he says as the crew finally settles down. “I’ll ask my questions, and if you’re comfortable you can answer them. If you’re not, just tell us and we’ll move on.”</p><p>“Sounds good,” Tony responds, subdued.</p><p>
  <em> One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four, five, six. </em>
</p><p>Someone behind the glaring lights clears their throat. “And speed.”</p><p>The cameras roll.</p><p>In an almost unsettlingly earnest tone, the interviewer asks, “For understandable reasons, you've kept the details of what happened to you both during your kidnapping largely private. Why are you allowing us to interview you now?”</p><p>Tony looks to Peter, who had pushed for them to do this interview in the first place.</p><p>Carding his hands rhythmically through Kobol’s fur, Peter says, “I guess we thought that, you know, now we’re both on the mend and we can talk about everything, it would be… important. Because we’re free and we’re okay. I think it’s, uh, a story of hope, even after a lot of bad stuff has happened.”</p><p>“That’s a great way of thinking about it. We’re certainly glad you’ve taken the time to talk with us.”</p><p>“Thank you.” Although the kid doesn’t quite meet their interviewer’s eye, his words are genuine.</p><p>“Tony, how did the day of your kidnapping play out? It was 2016, wasn’t it?”</p><p>At the question, the lights seem to intensify, burning him alive. He shifts in his seat and swallows. “Yes, in May,” he answers eventually, feeling his throat narrowing, allowing only a defensive, snarky veneer through. “The actual event of being taken - it was cliche, if I’m being honest. Dark alleyway… knife at my throat… the whole works. He even brought out the zip-ties.”</p><p>“You didn’t make an attempt to escape?” the interviewer goads, drawing a frown from Tony.</p><p>“I did tell you there was a knife, didn’t I? And once he had a bag on my head and my hands behind my back, I started to come up short on escape plans.” The smile Tony finds himself throwing out is humourless.</p><p>“Peter, you didn’t know Tony at the time of his kidnapping, did you?”</p><p>“No, I was… I must’ve been still living with my aunt and uncle then. I, uh, I, I got taken a year on.” The kid shrugs loosely, gaze darting up, down, up. “It happened in pretty much the same way as with Tony. I was walking back to the children’s home from school, and… yeah.”</p><p>“The children’s home?”</p><p>“I… I lost my aunt and, and my uncle - a few months before I was taken.” A laboured sigh, one much too ancient-sounding to be issuing from an eighteen-year-old, escapes Peter then. </p><p>Tony picks up his hand where it’s settled on Kobol’s fur and grips it reassuringly.</p><p>With a nod of sympathy, the interviewer lowers his voice a little. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”</p><p>“It’s okay.”</p><p>Maybe Tony’s just paranoid, but he doesn’t like the manner of their interviewer. There’s an overly smooth appearance to him, his probing questions, the glances he shares with the crew.</p><p>He sticks it out, but only for the kid.</p><p>“So--” sitting forward a little too eagerly, the interviewer continues: “Was there ever a feeling for you during the ordeal that you had been forgotten? That there was no-one outside the room you were confined to who was worrying about you, hoping for your return?”</p><p>Peter flounders at that. Turning to seek Tony’s gaze with a dipped brow, he stammers, “I don’t - uh, it, it was…”</p><p>“It doesn’t matter anymore.” Tony curls a firm arm around Peter’s shoulders. “He has a family who loves him very much.”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>Tony can’t help but raise his eyebrows minutely.</p><p>Peter just directs a hesitant smile at them both. </p><p>Thankfully, the interviewer takes the hint and moves on. “What was a day in Larry Miller’s garden shed like for you both? How were the living conditions?”</p><p>But now that Tony’s put up his walls and painted anger in bright red across them, he can’t help but fire back. “Apart from the fact that we lived in a twelve-by-twelve foot space with no windows for four years? It was just great. Like a hotel, except with the wrong kind of perks.”</p><p>“There - there was a window,” Peter mediates, huffing out a breathy half-laugh. “A skylight, anyway. But, yeah, it was pretty… soul-sucking. Have you ever ended up staying indoors for a long time? Maybe finishing up a piece of work you just want to get done?” </p><p>There’s so much sincerity in Peter’s address, too much. Tony’s heart swells and clangs all at once.</p><p>“I think we’ve all been there at some point.”</p><p>The crew laughs on cue.</p><p>“And it feels amazing to step outside when you’re finally done, right? Well, that’s sort of what it was like - except there wasn’t the satisfaction of going outside. We were just stuck. I mean, we had beds to sleep in, a bath, kitchen, TV, even some furniture. And we tried to decorate, make it feel a little like home, you know. So, it could have been worse. But, uh… it wasn’t fun.”</p><p>“I’m sure it wasn’t.”</p><p>
  <em> “Can’t believe you fucking--” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> One, two, three, four. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Knife-- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> One, two, three, four, five, six. </em>
</p><p>“Tony, you were kept in that room for five years?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Why did Larry keep you there?”</p><p>The words tumble out of his mouth before he can think. “Because he was a sick guy who liked to trap people in rooms and hit them for pleasure.” </p><p>He notices that the kid is squeezing his hand back now.</p><p>“You suffered physical abuse?” the interviewer asks.</p><p>“If you want to say it all fancy like that.”</p><p>“You were hospitalized with multiple stab wounds in August 2020. Those were Larry’s doing?”</p><p>“Who else’s?”</p><p>“How did it feel leaving the room you’d been kept in for five years?”</p><p>“Oh, I was out of it. I didn’t wake up until I was back inside, after they’d stitched me back up.” A pang of bitter remembrance strikes through him. It’s uncomfortable; he would love to be anywhere but here to endure it. “I was just worried about the kid.”</p><p>Peter ducks his head beside him.</p><p>“Why was that?”</p><p>“He was still in there.”</p><p>A charged moment of silence ensues. Pushing a breath from his lungs, the kid gathers Kobol closer to his chest.</p><p>“Peter, did you also suffer abuse at Larry’s hands?” the interviewer presses. In fact, the whole crew seems to perk up at the question.</p><p>Tony leaps to his defense. “We’ve decided not to talk about that--”</p><p>“No, it’s alright,” Peter says quietly. There’s a shard of determination in the remark that knocks Tony off his feet.</p><p>He scans Peter’s face. It’s resolute. </p><p>“Kid.”</p><p>The way he brushes his thumb over Tony’s in response says <em> it’s okay </em>. But Tony’s seen him freeze up under friendly touches, watched him fall apart at mere recollections, counted endless tears that have painted his face, so to say that he feels uneasy at the prospect of the kid talking openly to their overly-friendly interviewer is an understatement.</p><p>Turning back to the cameras, Peter nods slowly. “Yes, yes I did.”</p><p>“And what would a man like Larry want with a kid like you? Twelve years old at the time?”</p><p>“He - uh - <em> huh </em>. It’s, it’s pretty hard to talk about.”</p><p>Holding Peter’s hand no longer suffices: Tony shuffles closer to him on the couch so their sides are pressed together and strokes a hand along the length of Kobol’s back himself in the hope that Peter will follow his lead. Eventually, the kid’s faltering hands join his.</p><p>“But, uh…” Tony can see the war playing out across the kid’s face in painful clarity. His jaw tightens. “He would come in, usually at night, and he would - he would - rape me.”</p><p>
  <em> Tony watched the kid’s bare knees trembling between Larry’s. He just stood there and watched. </em>
</p><p>“Oh. Oh, wow. We had no idea. I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Peter rubs at his sternum; it only confirms what Tony had suspected. The next breath he takes hitches on the exhale. “Can I, can I have a minute?” he asks waveringly, looking to Tony, the interviewer, the cameraman. “Just to…”</p><p>“Yeah,” Tony confirms staunchly. “Let’s take a break.”</p><p>“Sure.” </p><p>Tony glares at the cameras until a muted <em>beep </em>signifies that they’ve stopped recording.</p><p>When he turns back to the kid, he notices him sniffing and blinking furiously.</p><p>“Do you have a tissue?” he whispers.</p><p>Tony fishes one out from his shirt pocket and hands it to Peter, who instantly moves to cover his face with it. Kobol sits up and nuzzles his head a little against the kid’s shoulder; Peter pets him absentmindedly.</p><p>While the kid rushes to contain himself, Tony places a hand softly against the nape of his neck. It’s a safe spot they’ve figured out after much trial and error, a touch that calms him when he doesn’t want to be trapped in a hug.</p><p>Calling to mind waves in the ocean, Tony does his best to pour the image into his murmured reassurance. “There you go. You’re doing great, Pete.”</p><p>The kid nods slightly.</p><p>Taking his hand from where it’s still threaded through his own, Tony lifts it above Kobol’s coat and mutters, “In…”, then sets it down and guides it down the length of his fur - “And out.”</p><p>He spots a smile from around the tissue and counts it as a win.</p><p>They’ve gone through four slow breaths when the interviewer prompts them: “Why don’t we move on to the next question?”</p><p>“Uh-huh. Okay, let me just--” Scrubbing at his face once more, he pockets the tissue and sets his shoulders with resolve. Tony is bowled over with a sudden surge of pride for the kid at his side. “Okay. I’m ready.”</p><p>Tony isn’t, however. His unease is only growing.</p><p>The cameras roll.</p><p>“When Peter arrived in the room with you, Tony, what changed?”</p><p>“Everything,” Tony says honestly, giving honesty one last try. “Life was… better because I had him, but worse because he was going through everything with me.”</p><p>“How did you feel when you first witnessed the way Larry was abusing Peter?”</p><p>“I think you can imagine how I felt watching him use a twelve-year-old like that.”</p><p>“How often would this happen, these incidences of abuse?”</p><p>“Larry came into the Room maybe three or, or four times a week,” Peter tells him.</p><p>Tony can sense that the interviewer is building up to something dark, something intrusive - he just <em> knows. </em></p><p>Directing a scrutinizing gaze towards them both, their interviewer spreads his hands to address them. “The experiences that you’ve described, they must have taken a huge toll on both of you. Were there ever... any thoughts of taking your own lives?”</p><p>It takes hearing the words to get Tony to realise that <em> he doesn’t have to do this. </em></p><p>He lets in memories of bathwater pounding around his submerged face, hopeless stings of cuts from the blunted knife, the incessant <em> thud, thud, thud, thud </em>of his head against the wall, the animalistic desperation of clawing at concrete walls, allows them to flood him for just a few seconds before prying his microphone away from his shirt. “Okay.” He rises abruptly and grabs Kobol’s collar to allow the kid to do the same; although he’s the picture of confusion, Peter follows his lead, shedding his mic and standing with him. “I’m sorry - I think we’re done here.”</p><p>The interviewer gapes. “What - excuse me?”</p><p>A flurry of crew members start towards them, but Tony holds an arm out. “We’ve answered your questions. You have your news story. Now we’d like to be escorted out if you’d be so kind.”</p><p>He can’t help but spit the words out.</p><p>“Mr. Stark, we were very nearly finished with the interview--”</p><p>“I don’t care. We’re not comfortable.”</p><p>Nobody seems to know what to do. Peter backs into Tony’s side, eyes wide like a deer in headlights, and for a split second Tony is in the Room, shielding him fruitlessly from Larry.</p><p>“You <em> will </em> escort us out of here, or I’ll stop being so nice.”</p><p>An executive - who had sat silently behind the interviewer until the present moment - moves briskly out of the shadows and leads them towards the door.</p><p>“C’mon, baby,” Peter breathes to Kobol, hurriedly attaching a lead before gluing himself to Tony’s side. They’re shown out of the building.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The nearby park is pale, ethereal, in the grey afternoon light. Empty grassland rolls out before them both as they walk slowly across its breadth, accommodating for Tony’s stiff gait. Kobol scampers back and forth in front of them on an extendable leash, pawing occasionally at the ground.</p><p>A storm looks to be approaching in the canopy of dark and billowing clouds above. It would be fitting.</p><p>“Why did we have to leave?” Peter asks eventually. There’s no malice in his words, just an innocent confusion.</p><p>“They were asking the wrong kind of questions. I reckon they just wanted to get a dramatic response out of us to make a story people would watch.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>Mistaking the dejected tone to the kid’s monotonous reply for annoyance, Tony winces. “Honestly, I might have overreacted a little.”</p><p>“No, it was good - you got us out of there,” acknowledges the kid. The frown creasing his face, however, tells Tony that he’s yet to resolve his train of thought.</p><p>"I just wish I would’ve figured that out on my own," he admits.</p><p>“What are you talking about?”</p><p>Tony faces him, trying to study him, figure him out in the way he so easily could when the kid was twelve and reflected every nuance of emotion in searing clarity. But he’s growing up now, learning to hide how he feels.</p><p>A sigh of frustration escapes the kid. He pauses, rotates in a slow circle, collects his thoughts.</p><p>Even as the kid grows up, he hasn’t grown out of sharing his worries with Tony.</p><p>“I just - sometimes I feel stuck. Like I’ll never get past being twelve and believing everything people say to me. Like everyone my age has left me behind. The Room, it’s like… this wound in my side. This hole. I’m incomplete. And it means I can’t go through life as fast as everyone else because it hurts so bad. Even now it’s stitched up, it hurts, and I keep... falling over and making a fool of myself.”</p><p>“You’re not making a fool of yourself,” Tony protests gently, hoping to remove the disquiet he’s starting to pick out now in the way the kid stares unseeingly at the space ahead of him.</p><p>“I wanna - <em> huh. </em>Sometimes I just wanna yell about everything and see if it will leave. Do you get that?”</p><p>The kid directs that gaze at him again, that gaze that’s full to the brim with trust.</p><p>“I get that all the time, kid.”</p><p>They begin to walk again, but Tony brings them to a halt before they can get further than a few steps. “Why don’t we?” he says out of the blue.</p><p>Peter squints disbelievingly at him.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Yell.”</p><p>“That’s… weird,” huffs the kid.</p><p>“Weirdness is subjective.” Tony’s mouth quirks in remembrance of a morning three years ago: <em> “Cringe is subjective.” </em></p><p>
  <em> “Yeah, and you’re subjecting it.” </em>
</p><p>Peter barks out a short laugh. He remembers, too.</p><p>All of a sudden, the sky lightens a little around them, grass stalks lifting upwards momentarily as they’re carried by the intensifying wind.</p><p>Sucking in a breath, feeling it burn as it gushes into his lungs, Tony gathers his nerve and shouts, “I fucking hate that people want to pry into the shitty stuff that I went through just for a good story!”</p><p>As soon as he says the words, they disappear into the wind.</p><p>Eyebrows shooting skywards, the kid gapes at him in mingled shock and glee.</p><p>“Tony!”</p><p>“What are you scared of?”</p><p>Sighing through a reluctant grin, Peter looks to the gloomy heavens for a moment.</p><p>Lifting then dropping his shoulders, he says, “I hate that nobody understands what it’s like for me!”</p><p>Kobol begins a chorus of emphatic barking in response to their shouts.</p><p>“Yeah! Louder!”</p><p>“I’m mad that he made me scared of myself!” Peter screams, voice splintering. “He made me feel worthless!”</p><p>“He ruined me!” Tony hollers, the tamped-down rage from the interview now seeping out through his cries. “I can’t move, can’t walk, can’t live properly!”</p><p>“I wish Larry hadn’t had to go to prison!” </p><p>Tony freezes. The breath he had mustered for his next outburst flies from his lungs.</p><p>In the distance, thunder sounds.</p><p>His voice dwindling to a half-hearted call, Peter tells the sky, “I wish he’d just - been a good man. I wish people wouldn’t do bad things.”</p><p>It’s such a simple statement.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“Tony?”</p><p>They're driving back home through the darkening night, rain dribbling diagonally along the windscreen of the car.</p><p>“Yeah, Pete?”</p><p>“Do you think if, uh… if I’d known what was happening when Larry came in, and if I’d been braver - would I have been able to stop him?”</p><p>“No. No.” Tony clenches his hands around the steering wheel, feeling his heartstrings pull in a similarly uncomfortable fashion. “I don’t know where you got any of those ideas from.”</p><p>“He said he’d take it out on you and I believed him - but he never did.”</p><p>Softening his tone, Tony keeps his eyes on the road but tries his utmost to pour out his heart through just his words. “Peter. What happened in the Room is in the past. You’ve gotta remember that. Nothing we do or think is gonna change what happened. Remember what I told you when we met up in the hospital?”</p><p>A small nod.</p><p>
  <em> “You don’t gotta apologize. You were so brave, kid, so brave. So proud of you.” </em>
</p><p>“Don’t apologize. Don’t second-guess what you did. What you’ve gotta do is look at right now. Look at us. You’re at college. I’ve got Stark Industries. We have our family. We’re gonna drive home, sleep in our own beds, and tomorrow we’ll jet off for spring break. We’re free, kid. Free to explore and free to make decisions that we won’t need to doubt.”</p><p>“Yeah. Yeah. We are.” The thoughtful way in which the kid speaks holds no undercurrent of sadness.</p><p>Something seems to click in his brain after half a minute of silent contemplation; he rests his temple against the passenger window, half of his face lit up intermittently by the passing headlights of cars. </p><p>“That’s amazing,” he adds to their earlier conversation. There’s wonder in his voice.</p><p>“It is.”</p><p>Tony feels an inexplicable sense of hope thrum through his bloodstream as cat eyes which mark the centre of the road flash by.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 9th March 2023 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Destin Beach, Florida </em>
</p><p>“You having fun over there, kid?”</p><p>Peter is sprawled out on a towel, eyes shut and face lit up by a blissful smile. He hums softly. “I’m never gonna get over how great the sun is.”</p><p>Tony, propped up at his side by a jumble of cushions, chuckles at him.</p><p>Above them burns a glorious white sun, picking out sparks of light in the tips of waves as they slide in and out and heating the pale sand. Pepper has wandered away from their makeshift camp and now tiptoes along the shoreline, water swirling around her ankles, while Tony and Peter soak up as much sun as they can handle in their trunks and t-shirts. Beside the kid, Kobol has dug a pit in the sand to cool himself and lies there dutifully with his tongue lolling.</p><p>Although they’re supposed to be on vacation, Tony can’t find the willpower to set aside his tablet. The business is his pride and joy, and every email answered is another step towards safety for what could become thousands of people if the trajectory of his predicted stats is anything to go by. In the glare of the sunlight, the screen he clutches is dim, but he goes on valiantly - if fruitlessly - squinting at it.</p><p>Sitting up in an abrupt motion, Peter fishes in his backpack, eyes locked on a spot out to sea.</p><p>"See something good?" he asks, unable to avoid a fond twisting-up of the corners of his mouth at the kid's enthusiasm.</p><p>Peter unearths his sketchbook and flips with ardour through pages of sketches. "Yeah, the sun's hitting the ocean just right - do you see it?"</p><p>Shifting his focus to gaze out towards the thrillingly distant horizon, Tony watches. The sea is something else here: tinted aquamarine; tinged with the fresh, sharp scent of salt; endless. Even though he can't see exactly what the kid has noticed in the way the sun glances off the water, the wide expanse of it captures him, lifts him momentarily above his aches and pains and probably sunburnt skin and the remains of sordid memories he can never quite escape. He floats.</p><p>"I'll see it better in your drawing, I bet."</p><p>"Oh, I'm cracking open the watercolours for this one. I don't think I could do this justice with a pencil, you know?"</p><p>"You're the artist."</p><p>Now Tony finds himself distracted by Pepper's willowy silhouette against the waves, the brightest streaks in her auburn hair which catch the light as she brushes it back from her face and the languid way she swings her arms at her sides.</p><p>He tosses away his tablet at last in favour of doting on his wife from afar.</p><p>Peter huffs triumphantly. "Finally. I was about to start actually climbing on you and pulling it out of your hands."</p><p>Quirking an eyebrow, Tony looks back over at the discarded tablet.</p><p>"Why are you <em> like </em> this--"</p><p>He scrambles to intercept Tony just as he lunges for it, tackling him as gently as possible and wrapping his arms and legs around his body koala-style.</p><p>They burst out laughing. Tony pulls the kid into a playful headlock in the hope of getting his limbs to retract; Peter just shrieks and rolls them to the side, sending them toppling off the tower of pillows and onto the scorching sand. There, they wrestle breathlessly for another few seconds in a flurry of flying sand and limbs and gleeful cackles before Peter manages, at last, to pluck the tablet from Tony's hand.</p><p>Hefting the device into the air, Peter lets out a half-hearted cheer.</p><p>A duet of heavy breathing issues from them both as they lie and collect themselves. There's a distant bite of pain in Tony's joints, but he can't bring himself to care about it.</p><p>Peter flaps the hem of his sweat-stained t-shirt back and forth over his abdomen. Tony knows not to ask about it: just as he protects his own scars, the kid is protecting his. "Man. I am <em> not </em> fit," he breathes, rolling onto his side to face Tony.</p><p>An instant urge to fix the kid's mussed hair has Tony carding a hand through his now-gritty waves as he tells him, "You take dance classes."</p><p>"It doesn't feel like I take dance classes right now."</p><p>Tony snorts. "C'mon, up you get. I wanna see that painting." And he really does. "Unless it was purely for purposes of distraction?"</p><p>"No, I'm gonna paint it. Maybe if I do enough angles it will look like I actually worked over spring break."</p><p>Springing back upwards with more energy than Tony can fathom, the kid gravitates back towards his sketchbook, sets up his paints - even pours some of the water from his drinking bottle into a jar he'd brought with him and digs the container into the sand so it won't tip over - and, with bold and instinctive strokes, renders the sea in shades even more brilliant than Tony can discern in the real thing. He wonders if the kid really does see the world in more colour, or if it's his endearingly fanciful optimism that does it for him.</p><p>Tony spends twenty minutes casting his gaze over Pepper's carefree progress along the shore, the seagulls circling the sun, and Peter's hands as they coax out the image. His mind is enchantingly empty.</p><p>"Okay, I got a rough sort of thing," Peter announces, shifting out of his hunched-over pose of concentration and flipping the book to show it to Tony. "I think I like it."</p><p>Tony's smile overrides his face. It's beautiful. "I think I like it too."</p><p>"Is it too much?" </p><p>"No, it's just enough."</p><p>They're interrupted by Pepper's arrival before them both. "Are you two gonna sit around and bake all day or are you gonna come and join me?"</p><p>Kobol starts up at the invitation, bolting for the water, leaping headfirst into the waves and surfacing with a thorough shaking out of his now-drenched fur.</p><p>The three of them pause to watch his movements, grinning fondly at their dog. Kobol has a firm place in the family: he strains at the lead during walks when his humans are dawdling and talking too much; he patters companionably about the house and checks in on each occupant; and he understands that even if everyone is busy during the day they will sit together in the evening and cuddle him to his heart's content.</p><p>Pepper hauls at Peter's hands first, knowing he'll give in easily, and he stows his sketchbook and obliges her, skidding to his feet in the sand. Having teamed up, they loop their arms around Tony's; he rolls his eyes as he's lifted bodily to his feet and led towards the sea, which, admittedly, looks incredibly inviting in its frothing glory. Tony swears the waves beckon to him with their coaxing movement: <em> in, out, in, out </em>.</p><p>Three sets of footprints - one narrow and feminine, one heavy and lopsided by contrast, and the third long and light - travel from where the sand is fine and golden to the dark, squelching strip of land fringing the shoreline that is soon swamped by the bubbling tip of an encroaching wave. The moment that first slew of water slips over Tony's feet is one of indescribable ecstasy, one which draws out a peal of laughter from him. Pepper grins at him.</p><p>When the water reaches her hips, she comes to a stop, letting Tony and Peter wade on. Instead, she calls to Kobol, who floats his way over to her, tail slapping the water emphatically.</p><p>The further they move, the taller the waves grow, knocking them backwards periodically, but Peter seems content to ride out the crests, lifting his feet above the ocean floor and allowing the current to pull him back a little.</p><p>Tony doesn't notice the wave until it's upon them.</p><p>All he registers is Pepper's cry of "Boys!" cut off by an echoing pressure all around him as he pitches into the water.</p><p>Peter is knocked back a few steps but keeps his footing. Almost as soon as he notices Tony's absence, he jumps at the feeling of a hand grabbing his ankle.</p><p>He can't help but laugh a little as he calls, "I've got him, Pepper!"</p><p>Delving into the water, he blinks at the sudden sting to his eyes but is instantly able to locate Tony beneath the surface. He curls his arms around the man and heaves him back to his feet.</p><p>"I've got him," he cries again as he maintains his clumsy embrace with Tony, giving him the chance to find his footing again.</p><p>Pepper shakes her head, the dregs of concern disappearing from her countenance.</p><p>The first thing Tony says, after having shaken the water from his eyes, is, "Well, fuck."</p><p>Then he throws back his head and laughs almost deliriously. Peter giggles along with him.</p><p>"I was planning on getting soaked on my own terms," Tony gripes good-naturedly, plucking at his dripping clothes.</p><p>"Yeah, me too. <em> Ugh. </em>My t-shirt's soaked."</p><p>"Want to go back and grab a fresh one?”</p><p>"No. I think I'll just..." </p><p>A moment's deliberation flits across Peter's face, and then, with a steeling exhale, he pulls off his sodden shirt.</p><p>For a good while, Tony just watches him with a grin of disbelief, both of them swaying back and forth with the tide. Peter extends his arms and leans back, presenting his bare torso to the sun.</p><p>"It feels good," he admits; Tony notes the nervous undertone to the remark, but overwhelming it is mingled excitement and relief.</p><p>"Okay," Tony bursts, "I'll raise you."</p><p>He peels off his own t-shirt.</p><p>The countless narrow white lines and the bruises that will never quite heal and the puckered and reddened areas of skin aren't new to Peter, but there's something about baring them to the world, letting them reflect in the surface of the sea, allowing the hot touch of the sun to rest upon them, that feels <em> different. </em> And yet - not bad.</p><p>Wind ripples against his abused skin, soothing it.</p><p>"Look at us," remarks Peter, his voice brimming with hope.</p><p>Struck with sudden madness, Tony searches for the kid's hand and joins it to his before lifting their arms to the sky in a triumphant gesture, a gesture that says <em> we're here! We made it! </em></p><p>"Look at us," he concurs.</p><p>Tipping forward so he drops gradually into the ocean, he begins to swim. Peter follows his lead, easing into a leisurely breaststroke. Beneath them, their hands are distorted by the water, pale and strange, but the sun above is constant. Real. They will never be parted from it again.</p><p>Taking in the kid beside him, his brown eyes set aflame in the light and glowing with happiness, Tony is complete.</p><p>They swim on together towards the horizon.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> When you walk through a storm </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Hold your head up high </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And don't be afraid of the dark </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> At the end of a storm </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There's a golden sky </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And the sweet silver song of a lark </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Walk on through the wind </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Walk on through the rain </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Though your dreams be tossed and blown </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Walk on, walk on </em>
</p><p>
  <em> With hope in your heart </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And you'll never walk alone. </em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, this is it!!<br/>I'll hopefully be getting round to replying to all your lovely comments very soon. I thought I'd put this out there first :) I'm so thankful for all the support for this fic! It's really grown into something special; I hope you've been able to grow a little from it and, most of all, that you've enjoyed it.<br/>Oh, and the song lyrics at the end are from You'll Never Walk Alone by Gerry and the Pacemakers :)</p><p>I have big plans in the works!! On the one hand, it's risky to mention them in case I never get the motivation, but on the other I'm too darn excited to talk about them! I'm planning on fleshing out this storyline with a number of oneshots that will cover elements of Tony and Peter's recovery and journey adjacent to the plot of this main fic, and I'm thinking of including:<br/>- Peter settling in at college and getting to know Harley, MJ and Ned<br/>- Kobol being an adorable emotional support dog!!<br/>- Possibly some more of Tony and Peter's experiences in the Room<br/>- MJ and Peter navigating a consensual relationship after Peter's trauma<br/>- Peter discovering dance and reclaiming his body<br/>Are there any other things you'd like to see the Tony and Peter of this world take on? I'd love to hear more suggestions in the comments, everyone's ideas in the last chapter were super helpful!!</p><p>For now, however, it's time to say goodbye. I love you all!<br/>Daisy &lt;3<br/>My tumblr: notaparty-trick</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well, I warned you it'd be angsty...<br/>How did you like it?? Come yell at me in the comments, they make my day!<br/>I hope you all are staying safe wherever you are and have a lovely day &lt;3<br/>my Tumblr (because a couple of people have asked): notaparty-trick</p></blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29443299">Fanart for The Room Where It Happened by Notapartytrick</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/OllieMarieRen/pseuds/OllieMarieRen">OllieMarieRen</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
</div></div></div>
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